good evening and welcome

Beaches 11

2012-01-30T00:48:00.000-08:00

after a long arduous day at work, after finally making it home, after finally heating up my warm breakfast cereal for dinner dinner, I finally sat myself down at my laptop computer/the-future-is-now entertainment station with one goal in mind: to achieve maximum relaxation/minimum brainwave action via hoo-loo streaming videos. in lieu of my usual 'I'll just watch trailers of movie's I'll never see,' I went straight for the kill. and was denied twice the movies of my choice (indiana jones and the last crusade and The 10 Commandments - tho, now that I think of it, me not finding it might have less to do with the fact that the cine-web can't be bothered by a 3.65 hour epic biblical tale from 1956 and more to do with the fact that I actually searched for a non-existent movie entitled The 12 Commandments. Sisters Colleen, Christine, Beverly and Maria are all, with the help of Jesus, spiritually knuckle rapping me from a distance.) but I did luck out on my third choice, drumroll please. . . . Beaches.

yes, Beaches. Bette Midler and Blossom as Bette Midler's character in her wiley youth, across from Barbara 'your name makes me want chocolate' Hershey and some generic brown haired youngin who's name name I don't recall/never knew because she didn't go on to star in her own TV show. (but, wait, ilvs, you can't remember the girl who played Blossom, either. -what do you mean 'played Blossom'? -the actress who played Blossom. -again, phrasing I do not comprehend. -actress. has name. - yes. Blossom. is Blossom.). . . it has been a while since I saw that film, probably since my best friend was a horse loving straight A catholic school girl named Molly. I was in the mood for some tear inducing, ovary warming eighties nostalgia. a, ahem, girl's night sunday night slumber party for one, if you will. and I did.

well, that is, until the interweblord deemed my shared with 8 other people wifi connection 'too slow' and black screen froze up on me and hour and 22 minute into it. I hadn't even gotten to the part where she gets bed riddenly sick! talk about a buzz kill. but then, just as I had opened up this blog site in order to write a scathing rant, the universe interceded and there came a knock at my door. enter in my best friend/neighbor, stopping in to say hello and hey why have you been acting so weird lately I'm worried about our friendship what gives. and the scene that followed was like it was pulled from the future, right out of the brain of the screenwriter of some targeted-at-women movie maybe it will be called Beaches 11. Tho, that title makes me think it might also have like a diamond heist involved in it. regardless, feelings were shared, tears were shed, mutual understanding was come to. which is good, cuz, well, I'm still waiting for the rest of the movie to buffer.

it should be noted, that while our little heart to heart was happening, I was dressed in half my pyjamas + half my street clothes + stripey blanket of peruvian influence = slow moving emo ninja in a blanket, and BFF was fresh from a performance so had on full drag make up and a wig and platform shoes (her american flag unitard hidden under her fur collared bright blue over coat). and while we sat on the edge of my futon, my feline BFF, BABY SEAL, was loving the crap out of the moment soooooo much she decided to say so by attempting to lick the freckles off my hand/the buttons off my calculator watch. never has so much love occurred in such a moment in time under the exact same circumstances. I feel blessed to have been such a part of such best best friend estrogen trifecta. thank you Bette, Chocolate Lady, for paving the way. my uterus is positively aglow.

what to get your sister's mustachioed boyfriend who already has a lifetime supply of mustache wax:

2012-01-15T21:07:00.000-08:00

Book Report: The History of Love

2012-01-13T19:36:00.000-08:00

Eager to delve into the salty seas of literary pearls this New Year, I checked myself out a copy (upon Eagle's chit chat recommendation while waiting for the next available teller at the local credit union we both engage with) of The History of Love by Nicole 'Rhymes with Strauss' Krauss. Twas a good read, all in all. Though I will confess that, in my eager beaverness, I dove a little too deep, too fast. (wait, beaverness?) As in, I sat myself down at my local tea shop/smoothie shop and read 70 pages at a time, reader me running at full gallop. And while my eyes certainly registered all n letters, spaces, punctuation and singular typo, my brain did not. Picture if you will: a wild frontier with two horses all geared up, clopping away at full speed, thingies that connect their harnesses to their intended load dragging behind them on the ground, and left behind in the dust, me, standing in my grounded chariot, coughing and rubbing her eyes. (Horses = my eyeballs. Me = well, me, my brain. Eyes = the eyes of my brain.) So then I found myself more than halfway through the book and seriously confused.
Enter in Internetted study notes. Never in my scholastic career did the need arise for me to make use of such crutches! Yet here I am, the setting sun of school long behind me, and I'm fumbling in the dark trying to unclasp the secrets of said lovely novel. So, yeah, I had to read the summary of the book to actually understand the book. The book, for the record, is not complicated. There were just some key facts that I glossed over in my sophomoric attempt at speed reading that made it, well, confusing.
Speaking of speed reading and the history of love, of my love to be exact, I once dated a speed reader. She was not a speed reader by profession, but by hobby only. Which maybe added to the irritation I felt over how frickin smug she was at how frickin good she was at it. Ack! I can remember sitting next to her in bed, both of us nosed in our own books of choice, but me only just barely, hanging by fingernails, mine, on the the thin ledge of words lined up on the pages because I was so distracted by the affrontingly triumphant sound of her page turning! It was happening so fast! And so loud! Oh, the sound! A gold trophy scraped down the length of a chalk board in an otherwise quiet bedroom. And to top it off she had the audacity to enjoy herself via actually being able to understand the tale at such break neck speed! Ack! I'm tensing just reliving the memory!
Interestingly enough, my repressed competitive streak and equally repressed/completely underdeveloped resolve to share how I was feeling at that point, were somehow - get this - linked to how I related to her throughout the entirety of the relationship. And ultimately led its untimely demise.
I am happy to report, though, that knowing she could read what took me one hour to write in under 30 seconds is no longer filed under 'THINGIES THAT GET MY GOAT.' Nor am I as fervently chomping at the bit to plow through the next book, Everything Is Illuminated. I intend to take my time on that. Which is probably doubly in my favor as the plot lines, I'm told, are pretty much (and controversially) the same.

a recourse on remorse

2012-01-08T21:48:00.000-08:00

things that rhyme with horse

please. don't hurt yourself on my rapier-like wit.

2011-11-09T12:35:00.000-08:00

what have I been up to?
well, I'm glad you asked.
I have been:

1a. listening to opera CD's chosen randomly/based on the cover from the CapHill library's fine selection.
1b. not liking the opera I'm listening to.
1c. being wowed by some opera singers' incredible talent of singing notes higher than the piano.
1d. still not liking opera on a whole.
1e. being ok with not liking the opera/considering reclassifying the library's selection from 'fine' to 'totally not my cup of tea.'

2a. committing to memory the following: ABCDEFG. this seemingly basic activity is requiring my attention 5 days a week from 8am to 850am, and still it is hard.
2b. but it is good.
2c. and inspiring me to:

3a. really get crackin on my music career starting with bringing into reality the newest of new ideas for a conceptual band. ready? it's gonna be called HUMAN CLAW. it would require me to move to easternish washingtion and learn to love/play/shred death metal. and find a small handful of other folks to join me. preferably those of british cockney descent because nothing is funnier than a play on words that gets cancelled out aurally, and thereby doubled in hilarity, all due to a thick accent that is inherently funny due to its borderline incomprehensibility to begin with.
3b. or I'll just sell my idea on ebay.

***

in other news. . . my neighbor, Basketball, is slowly destroying/devouring the pair of orange swimming goggles that I put in the hallway's unofficial designated freebox area, starting with the black head strap. apparently, there can be only one black and orange creeper in the hallway, feline or otherwise.

welcome back!

2011-10-15T19:13:00.000-07:00

good gravy it's been a while!

much has occurred since early august. for instance: I have new digs. I am renting out a weathered beach house on the hill owned by Peter Peter Jennings, brother of BABYSEAL. things I am acclimating to: direct sunlight (well, weather permitting), a kitchen with cabinets, floors I wear shoes on, a bed I do not have to climb a steep ladder to get in, and neighbors who love 430am LadyTron. all in all, a pretty sweet deal. even the LadyTron was tolerable/cancelled out by two things: the turning on of my small fan and this dream I had:

I was in a store. department store I think, not a food store. and I was in my underwear. light grey (not heather grey, like dirty tshirt grey. 'cept without the dirty part) boys boxer briefs. and some kind of tshirt. I was with two who were possibly friends: Dude and his GF. I was standing there, not looking at anything 'cept maybe down at my underwear. Dude was at a clothing rack looking at clothes and he looks over at me and says 'Hey, I like your box.' I was slightly embarrassed, not because he was referencing my underpants but because of his unintended double entendre. GF and I were on the same page cuz she looked at me kind of embarrassed, then at Dude, then back at me and said, ''Box' is what men call Boxers,' to try and cover for him. so I looked Dude standing there, oblivious at first but slowly catching on, and said to his face something to the effect of, 'That's cool. 'Box' is what women call their vaginas.'
then I woke up to the bass beats of LadyTron with moon light streaming in my window.

huzzah! stay tuned for more updates/stories/announcements/whatever you call something that is like an opinion but differs in that I am right regardless.

much love.

More on Camping

2011-08-16T18:08:00.001-07:00

Not to be confused with Moron Camping. Something I do not partake in, thank you very much. But since we are on the topic of to be improved upon ways of doing things, I shall indeed take this moment and the next, muchisimas gracias, to expound upon several items of notable interest.

First off, twice it has been called to my attention that my newly acquisitioned tent resembles something of a coffin. I have no photos of it to upload at the moment so you will just have to take my biased word that it does in fact not look anything like a coffin. It is Tan and Red. Coffins are Black. Case closed. And if any celebrity look-a-like comparison is to be drawn, it shall be my me here now: my coffin- ack! now you have me saying it. ahem, my TENT resembles a Star Wars X-Wing fighter:

. . . Minus the X-Wings, of course. And the obscenely large hand.

And it should be noted that it took me a good 3 minutes of internetting to find that image and learn that it indeed belongs to the realm of Star Wars.

3 minutes is like forever in space.

More if you have gigantic fingernails to buff, paint, polish.

Back to my story.

So, while my inaugural camping outing was sufficient in the crazy weather category for my little star fighter away from home to prove its worth in the midst of a deluge the likes I have never seen before in my life, my second outing served to illuminate the fact that nylon and mesh fail big in the sound proofing department. Not that I had high hopes for a quiet night situated how I was. Cuz really, camping within 50 feet of a giant-hand sized bonfire + about 150 inebriated peoples cavorting/zombie staring/hippie dancing all around it was more of user error than anything else.

What else.

One last note. Mosquitos. God made dirt and dirt don'- OW! m&therf#cker! is what I have to say about that. My tent was superb at keeping the little f%kers out. (or in, as the case was one unfortunate night. it's like we, mosquito and I, snuggled up and fell asleep at the same time, slept through the night peacefully, only to die/wake up at the crack of dawn with me slapping myself in the face to kill it as it kissed me good morning sunshine.) Hippie Bug Spray, on the other hand, far, far away from the first hand, did not exactly get an A in that subject. Hippie Bug Spray is like more of a suggestion of repelling than actual protection. A passive aggressive one at that. 'Hey, uh, I know you survive on stabbing me with your proboscis and all, and - OW! oh, sorry, didn't mean to startle you, I know you have family to feed and you're really - OWIE! F&CK, sorry. you're a really nice bug, insect, whatever, but maybs you could not do - OW! MOTHEROFGOD, uh, that. if you could not do that, for the rest of our hang out, that'd be really swell.' I mean, a nice non chemical smell and environmental concern goes a long way, but not as long as itchy bumps all over my extremities it turns out.

This coming weekend will be yet another chance to escape to non city space in my tiny space fighter. Being the type of person who hops in on adventures when other people have already made the plans, I cannot tell you exactly where I am going or what the conditions shall be. But rest assured, I will be warm, dry and at the very least, engaged in some kind of mediated conversation with native bug life.

***

On a side note, it should be known that my soon to be ex-neighbor (what is this? mor'on that later. . .) is playing Christmas/New Years songs. It is mid August. I'm not saying, I'm just saying.

Other fact of note, today, August 16th, is the anniversary of the death of Mr. Elvis Presley.

Which is also the anniversary (#2) of the near death of Mr. ilvs strauss. And while singing harmonies with the king of kings and the king of all other things sounds really dreamy, this prince is pretty happy to be here to see another year. So a Happy New Year it is.

I'm gonna start a blog about sleeping bags.

2011-07-26T11:07:00.001-07:00

Why? Because apparently I have a lot to say about them.

Exhibit A - the last blog.

Exhibit B - this blog: I was at Aryeye last night shopping for a tent for my trip that I leave for in a few hours (did I buy a $300+ tent? No. Did I come away with a greater knowledge of tents/appreciation for friends who have lent me tents in the past? Yes.) and whilst admiring the different color schemes on the tent field guide poster, I overheard some customers exchanging some words about sleeping bags with a cashier mid transaction. I, without taking my eyes off the tent diagrams, perked up my ears and took a step closer lest I miss a single word. The conversation went something like this:

cashier: . . .men's sleeping bags zip on (one side), women's on the (other).

young man: why is that?

cashier: so you can zip them together.

woman presumably mother of young man: oh I didn't know that.

young man: you thinking of getting some action on the mountain?

ok maybe it's not his mom: (no words, just a bevy of looks directed back at the young man, at the cashier)

I ceased listening after that. I was in shock! Gendered sleeping bags?! Yes, I understand that people have different body types and a gross generalization can be made for those of female biology vs those of male biology, but to limit the union of two sleep bags to those of opposing body types - this is a barefaced outrage! What if I want to be warm in the woods with my Lady Friend? Is this faceless Aryeye to be our remote chaperone/cockblock? And what if two dudes who share a love of nature but not each other's bits, hike up in the mountain together, sharing snacks, stories, platonic shoulder massages, only to find themselves underprepared for unexpected cold weather and need each other to stay warm through the night, to survive? Are we to let them die, together in the tent yet so far apart in their individually zipped up sleeping bags?

think.

not.

So. This to you I propose: gay - I mean Unisex- sleeping bags. One shape. Zipper down both sides so you can keep your side of the futon. Comes in pink with a black dot or black with a pink dot. Galaxy print interior either way*. Can also be zipped head to toe, head to toe, (ahem, not for what you are probably thinking) so that the dots on the bags make a kind of perfect yin/yang symbol when in union. Each one comes with a glow stick, some sage, chapstick. Oh and they're super light and can pack down into a small pouch that doubles as a fanny pack.

People, it's time we all get on the same page: the revolution will be egalitarian, stylish and toasty, toasty warm.

*warm gays in Space!

july 12, 2011

2011-07-12T10:33:00.000-07:00

on this day

some people were born,

other people died,

important pieces of paper were signed.

somethings were lost,

other things were found,

it was probably hot.

I sleep in socks.

2011-07-06T07:50:00.001-07:00

nearly a month has gone by and my blog has suffered inversely to how much i have been sleeping in sleeping bags. were it truth that too my suffering were inversely proportional to this alterna-bedding i have been subjected to. alas, it is not so.

my sleeping bag. i purchased it approx 7 summers ago for purposes of surviving 3 weeks turned into 3 months of lovely living in the woods of northern california. just prior to my shopping expedition, i watched the movie 'alive' with some buddies. for those not in the know, 'alive' is a dramatization of a true and dangerous and super unintentional expedition taken by a team of, uh. . .soccer players from. . . somewhere not in north america when their plane crashed into some south of the equator snowy mountains. or, to be more suscinct/contain more than just an inkling of fact: In October 1972 a plane carrying a Rugby team of 45 from Uraguay to Chile crashes in the Andes.

basically i walked into the camping gear store and bee lined to the negative below zero bags. my survival in the woods would not be a question. as it turns out, zero degree doesn't really factor in in northern california summers, the nice sales person assured me. so instead i went with light and compact, a stylish number with a higher up in the double digits range of comfort. perfect, i thought. and it was. for the first 2.5 months. and then it wasn't. summer was slowly whittled away by the approaching darkness of fall/winter and took with it my sleeping bag's ability to produce any iota of warmth. i survived with an extra blanket, a wool jacket, long johns, and a few nips of the old whisky. i made it through the last bit of my stay, packed up my bag and thought of it not really in the months/years that followed.

fast forward to two weeks ago. me and buddy marisa and her gluten free girlfriend wound our sweet way to the washington coast ala shi shi beach. it. was. awesom.e. except for one small detail: the hours between 10:30pm and 7:00am*. i, not having a gf gf, nor anyone else with which to intimately share my dehydrated beans with, bunked solo in a two person borrowed tent on a too short thermarest and aforementioned summer fun sleeping bag. but let us closely examine the nomenclature here.

'summer'- ok, yes, it was one day past solstice.

'fun'- yes nad (ack! why can't it just auto correct that!?) - AND no, yes AND no. while carrying a few pound bag in a bag full of other things that did not weigh a mere few pounds was grand, cursing the ocean windy weather whilst maintaining a lonely full body fetal crunch position for approx 8+ hours was not. the root of this problem? the seemingly arbitrary 'range of comfort' designation. it's printed on the case of the bag as follows:

48degree – comfort

41degree – tolerable

30degree – extreme

ya right! a friend later explained that the general degree ranking is the lower limit of how cold it can be outside before you experience hypothermia. based purely on empirical evidence, i am wont to side with her wholeheartedly. i wont, too, to purchase a new warm sleeping bag. one that is not akin to sleeping in a glorified wind sock.

but what is this?! all this blathering on a singular minor albeit really uncomfortable stretch of time in what was a perfectly amazing camping trip experience! what has gotten into me? well, first let me attempt to account for this negative nelly business by claiming it a fair warning to those about to leave their urban affairs warmed with nothing more than a little cheapy nylon body bag. peoples, the extra pound or 3 is totally worth the full night of sleep. also, to my credit, the ocean beach herself is beyond explanation. i mean, what words have i for this?

or this.

or this?

i rest my case.

*this only on the first night. the second night, i wised up and wore all the clothes i brought with me to bed. i wasn't exactly warm, but, blessed be the sea, i did not freeze. also, the chilly first bites of both nights were filed down slightly by me taking the advice of an unnamed (read: can't remember who told me this) person who, with the wisdom of a thousand wise persons, to take some rocks that had been heating by the fire into the sleeping bag with me. i felt like kinda like a lizard sunning a rock for heat. except it was dark, we were not in the desert and the rock was the size of my heart, warming my ribs from the outside.

deedley deedley don't

2011-06-07T19:06:00.000-07:00

Whilst cleaning my glorious 160 square foot apartment just this morning, I unearthed a smallish, unlined notebook, slightly moisture warped and tinted with dirt. My notebook from the first folklife I worked 5 years ago! What luck, what a staggering find! I immediately stopped my dusting and neatening and thumbed thru it. Standing there in my flip flops and cleaning shorts, I tucked the dust rag into my back pocket and prepared for a short and satisfying jaunt thru ye olde memory street. Mostly what I found were pretty generic notes on canopy misplacements, missing fence fabric, and where and when to meet a particular vendor. Interesting! Almost as interesting was to notice the steady decline in legibility of my particular scrawl. As days and hours progressed, my notes to self become increasingly fragmented, dare I go so far as to say belligerent. Toward the end, where it looks as if I or someone within my close vicinity had actually mistaken the bound paper to be edible, there is a brief, barely legible timeline of my last days working. Since there is no way to summarize the events in an accurate manner, I will include them here for you in their full entirety. Dear readers, beware, the account which you are about to be privy to is as riveting as it is harrowing. They can only but hint at the deplorable shape to which I was reduced to by prolonged exposure to folk music and very very little sleep. Read on, if you dare.

daY 9

8am why am i hear?

11am why ar all these people her?

201pm i am

415pm still

556pm here

740pm why

909pm?

dy10

11:09am i listned to a banjo busker, and it made me cry. i love that bajno.

11:10am i hate that banjo plyer! i wanna hav sex wit banjo player!

11:14am and then smashed banjo against brick wall. hungry now.

11:18am just ate banjo player. . flossing teeth with banjo strings. . . need nap . .

5:16pm where am i? i stomcah hurt . .

7:21pm sp kdkfl ma ma skm diuiiiiiidiiiiiiidiiiiigiiiiireeeeeeddontttt!

Mercy! My brain must have somehow blocked those memories soon after, thereby allowing myself to subject myself to those same conditions every year since! I count myself lucky to be alive! . . that or I have somehow, over the years, reset my dials to accept the above as 'normal.' Or at the very least, 'just another festival.' See you at Bumbershoot?

siempre

2011-06-03T14:43:00.000-07:00

am i white

i look white

i feel white

not always

my neighbor gave me athlete's foot. and other pedestrian bones of contention. . .

2011-06-02T17:39:00.000-07:00

practically a month passes by and this is what i have to report? well. . . yes.

i am different now than i was in the past. how can i tell you ask? consider the following: i use to work events on the production crew which consisted of around 2+ straight weeks of work, ridiculously long hours, and lifting heavy awkward things. i survived with enough energy/drive/crazy to do it again. and again. and again. this year, howevers, i only worked 5 days of ze festival of folk music and i am just now, 3 days later, kinda coming to my rested, hurdy gurdy free senses. has my tolerance for bluegrass/folk/deedley dee music taken a sharp dive over the years? maybe. my appreciation for sleep and home time has most definitely steadily increased over those same number of years. file under 'positive life change.'

and while we are at it, file please the following grievance under 'tell me this is a temporary (read: curable) life change.' ok, so i don't know for sure if my amateur diagnostic is dead on or not, but i swear the skin on my toes were not peeling before i moved into this place. i share a bathroom with 4 other residents and god help me i swear i am the only one not raised in a barn, or whatever structure of origin where it is not just accepted but extolled to get the bath mat completely soaked after showering. the bath mat has come, slowly over the course of the past year of my residence here, to take on the appearance of a square, blue, low nap petri dish. this is, needless to say, gross. and what am i to do about this biological aberration? well, throwing it in the wash comes to mind first and foremost. but that would require wrestling my righteous sense of indignation to the grown and coughing up the monies for the $1.50 wash + $1.25 dry. a mighty match indeed. until the outcome of that battle is announced, i shall spend my time soaking my feet in a home made* concoction of approx 4 - 5 pH whilst sharpening my dagger eyes for the next time i espy those who share my general address.

on a side note, in an earlier email to friend, i fully typed the word 'dude' into the 'to' box. my friend's name did not come up. does my gmail not understand me when i speak in slangy reference to my buddy? me thinks gmail is due for another upgrade. . .

until then, best to you all.

*oh yeah, 'homemade,' according to the internet, equals either A) apple cider vinegar or B) urine. presumably human.

The Christian Cure for the Common Cold

2011-05-06T20:48:00.000-07:00

I am under the weather. How far? Definitely more than 3 inches, nowhere near 6 feet.

Earlier, after bailing on all my evening duties, I sat at home trying to figure out ways to A) make myself warm and B) get the germs out of my system. I have been following the prescribed 'drink more fluids than you thought humanly possible' route with very little instant gratification other than that which is experienced after peeing out aforementioned obscene quantity of fluids. Another regenerative axiom floated into my brain: sweat it out. Do not picture me in a low cut tank top and striped shiny shorts ala Richard Simmons. Nor create any mental images of me wearing a candy bright leotard with matching head band a la Jauanita de la Fonda. I am swaddled in regular attire (read: what I would normally where to go out in the dead of winter. save for sheep fur lined boots). But, seeing as I was having difficulty getting my body temperature to, what's normal these days? 37degrees celsius? with layers of an entire flocks worth of wool, plus a freshly filled water bottle (those red rubber things that old people/actors on cold medicine commercials have) (a friend gave me one years ago as a gift and it truly is the best thing ever) (on cold nights), I needed to seek out new strategies.

My nose and urinary tract were already in overdrive, what other floodgates do I have left? (No, I'm not sorry I asked. I am specifically referring to the dismissal of clear liquids of the platonic variety. Besides, it was kinda retorical of a question.) Then it came to me: my eyes. Well, tear ducts to be specific. I know! I thought to myself, I will cry this cold out of my system! Ok, now then, question: how to make myself cry without stressing myself out. Answer: sad movie. Think, ilvs, think, what movie made you weep effortlessly, uncontrollably? Dancer in the Dark. Oh, wait, that movie also made me extremely depressed. That and I don't have 2+ hours, I wanna cry now! and feel good about it! Then it came to me. . .

That freaking Christian lion you tube video.

For those of you who missed it (and for everyone else, you should probably watch it again), please take this moment to visit:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=md2CW4qp9e8

Well, tell me I don't need to convince you the wonders it worked. I freaking bawled the head cold right out of my face for however many minutes makes up around 5 maybe more viewings of that video. I feel a hundred times better. Way better than a stupid netty pot. Not as time intensive or messy or expensive (provided you have free internet access) or embarrassing (provided the free internet is not accessed at your local branch of the Seattle Public Library).

And now that I have stumbled upon this miracle cure, I shall recommend it to all who feel slightly unwell or in low spirits. And I hope life treats you kind, and I hope you have all you dreamed of. And I wish to you joy and happiness, but above all this, I wish you love.

And excellent health.

Happy Belated Birthday/Belated Easter (Beaster?. . . ) !

2011-04-26T09:48:00.000-07:00

to you! to me! to my sister! to my three newly hatched neighbors!

I love easter! There are bunnies and chocolate and new things and it's close to my birthday! This year my birthday was in fact on Good Friday. And I kinda love Good Friday. Because it reminds me of me. Allow me to explain.

My sister and I, along with having the same birthday, have the same initials: I.V.S. Her middle name is Vanessa, mine is Veronica. One day we decided to ask our parents who we were named after. Neither were family names, at least not that we recognized. So who were these significant people? Mom turns to my sister first: Well, you're named Vanessa after Vanessa Redgrave. Ah, the illustrious, distinguished, English actress! Wow, that's cool! Especially in light of the fact that my sister's passion in life is acting! Pretty amazing how that worked out. So then I started thinking, wow, I wonder what my name means for my future? Then my Mom turns to me and says, Well, ilvs, we named you Veronica after St. Veronica. Of the Stations of the Cross.

Now, for those of you not raised Catholic, or remotely familiar with this little bit of liturgical lore, the Stations of the Cross is like an illustrated time line of the final day or so of Mr. Jesus Christ. Starting with his condemnation, thru the whole schlepping of the cross bit, and ending with is inevitable crucifixion. Along the way from point A to point B, he falls 3 times. Somewhere between fall number one and fall number two, he meets a kindly, pious woman, who takes pity on his plight and offers him her veil to wipe his face. He does so, returns the veil (pretty sure he said thanks), and on it, left an imprint of his face. That woman is St. Veronica.

Wow, Mom, that's a hell of a story. So, wait, I'm destined to . . what, swab the face of my guru?? Hmmmm. . . So then I turn to my Dad whose standing there, for some kind of something and he just kinda shrugs and points back at my Mom. Thanks, Dad, Mom. Thanks. Really looking forward to that.

***

I told this story to my bff the other day, and after a slight pause she commented, Well, you do clean a yoga studio. Oh. My. God. She's right! I have spent countless hours of my life wiping off yoga mats. Destiny oddly fulfilled! Now how long before I either invent new pants (strauss, levi) or compose a symphonic masterpiece (strauss, richard/johann)? Time will tell, time will tell.

. . . but I ain't got wings. . .

2011-04-13T10:53:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I haven't left my house yet, nor crossed off any of the items on my to do list. But I have been watching the craziest thing outside my window.

I just posted about the squirrel that was pushed off the roof of my neighbor's house (ok, so it's two and a half-ish stories, not three). I thought it was a squirrel fight, but oh was I mistaken. I'm watching a mom squirrel teach it's kid to take a fall. Those other squirrels where just showing that it is possible.

Momma squirrel is as we speak, dragging baby squirrel up the tree (holding the not so little one by the leg in her mouth) for round two of 'jump off the roof before I push you off.' Yikes, Mom! I mean, I guess if you're gonna learn to take a fall, you gotta fall, but holy crap that's a jump. I suppose that is a lesson learned in 2 maybe 3 tries. Meanwhile, other baby squirrel, presumed sibling of disinclined descender, has been perched on my neighbor's first-ish floor window sill for the past hour or more, scared motionless. You got way far less to jump my little friend, but, man, I feel ya.

So, lesson for today: learning basic life lessons, like falling and trusting you're gonna be ok, sounds a lot like all hell is breaking loose. And in the end, falling from a roof top and walking away a little stunned is way better than starving on a window sill, wide eyed and petrified. Now if I could just get my neighbor to play Tom Petty's 'Learning to Fly. . . '

animal freakin' planet

2011-04-13T09:35:00.000-07:00

I just watched a squirrel fall from the roof of my neighbor's three story house.

There was a whole lot of chirpy commotion outside my window, the tree limbs waving about frantically, my tiny wind chime clamouring for my attention. I jumped to my feet in protective mode: a robin has made her nest right under my window, on the ledge created by the water pipe that runs along the outside the house like an afterthought before feeding into my kitchen. She's tucked in behind the pigeon spikes, which may deter the squirrels, but leaves her totally exposed otherwise, the tree still bare this early in spring.

I noticed her hanging around a few weeks ago but it wasn't until I looked up after parking my bike to the tree one day that I noticed her yellow beak and tail feathers amongst a circle of twigs. Peaking over the sill from inside, she flew away at the sight of my gigantic head, a perturbed magician, revealing three perfect little blue eggs. Babies! My neighbor is having babies! This is awesome! If I had a camera I would set up some kind of webcam, or at least get a still shot of it. Somehow, holding my entire laptop over the next to utilize the 'photo booth' program does not a good idea seem. So for now, use your fertile imagination.

But the squirrels! what the eff? There were two that fell off the roof (pushed?) by one parent squirrel who remained on the roof with a younger squirrel. I saw the first land but turned my eyes when the second one caught air. Both were fine, landed on their feet/bellies with the daintiest of thuds. I suppose they aren't that heavy to begin with*, and nature has probably built in some kind of safety feature in the way of high impact shock absorption, seeing as they live in trees and fall out of them sometimes. But then the two on the roof were joined by a crow who was bullying the youngin'. At which point the robin came back and pushed on the crow in a premature maternal 'don't eff with that baby and don't eff with mine once they are born' kinda way. Basically, all city wildlife hell broke loose on the roof top for about 45 seconds. I'm really hoping they got it all out of their system cuz I'm totally looking forward to baby birds waking me up in the a.m. I just hope they like funk music, cuz my neighbor is gonna give them an earful.

*ok, so adult squirrels are actually pretty heavy, deceptively so. how do I know this? I've picked one up. by the tail. to move out out of the middle of road, for starters. until the time comes that I learn that they increase in density post mortem, I shall remain duly impressed by their agility and strength.

Lift Off in 5. . .4. . .3. . .

2011-04-06T13:54:00.000-07:00

Hello!

Welcome to the flyer for my show! It's coming up super quick!

This Friday the 8th, next Friday the 15th and the following Friday the 22nd. All at 8pm, all $8, all all-ages (tho the first show is a little mature in theme towards the end).

Proceeds go towards video documentation so that I may put this on the internet in full view of the world!

And Arabica Lounge is a sweet sweet coffee shop.

Let it be known that parking in that area is atrocious.

I will be performing my Slide Shows, all 8 of them in this order:

8th

SPRING FLOWERS

DANIEL DEMON AND EVIL EVAN

WHAT I THINK ABOUT WHEN I'M AT WORK

(+ Special Guest)

15th

LOUD BREATH

MY EURO VACAY

(+The Old Lily Family ie my band!)

22nd

MARGARINE IN THE DARK

UNTITLED

THE NEXT GENERATION

(+Birthday Cake!)

Tickets at the door, or reserve them thru me!

Hope to see you there.

xo,

ilvs

Bathe in my Brilliance

2011-03-23T11:32:00.000-07:00

I am prone to enjoy a variety of activities. Including but not limited to brainstorming genius ideas for new projects and then never following thru with them. I spent many an hour well spent in the past coming up with new names for dream bands I would someday assemble and then front. (Like the all-wimmin medieval acoustic folk band called: THE MINSTREL CYCLE. All the songs would be sung in round and rest assured there would be no shortage of crushed velvet.) This exercise is followed the difficult task of choosing to file these ideas under CONCEPTUAL or FANTASTIC, but never ever, under any circumstances, under AIN'T NEVER EVER GONNA HAPPEN.

More recently, I have given careful thought to potential blogs I could start. Including, but not limited to, and in no particular order:

1-RUNNING FOR DIFFERENT REASONS – wherein I chronicle my attempts to figure out why people I encounter out on my run who are running devoid of proper running attire and the accompanying look of determination/pain/glee that I wear proudly, are running in the first place and where to exactly. I would accomplish this by sharply straying from my path and running after the person(s) in question, loudly collecting my data between gasps of breaths. This would mostly serve to satisfy my curiosity and could potentially be quite interesting to the casual blog reader. Provided the non-runner runner stops/does not impede the course of the interview by any hitting or calling of the police.

2-I'M NOT GLUTEN FREE BUT MY GIRLFRIEND IS – I'm patting myself on the back for the amount of clever points I'm racking up on the title alone. And then scratching my head on how to actually follow through with this one seeing as my life is devoid of any person resembling a girlfriend let alone a gluten free one. The closest most gluten free woman in my life right now is my mother. And 'I'm not gluten free but my Mom is' does not for interesting blog make, in my single and would not like to be that way forever opinion. Also, I came to the realization that, because my mother is gluten free, I might just be prone to those same sensitivities myself making the title of my would be blog doubly, even triply false.

3-YOGA FOR ASSHOLES – Not what you think. (and pardon the misspelled sanskrit that is to follow) But really, what are you thinking when you read that anyways. . . This blog would be a personal narrative of my journey as a fledgling yogi, in two phases. Part one would focus on my struggles with figuring out how a normal human twists and bends themselves into odd shapes without expelling air from the now fully compressed system, with much attention on my intense focus on those particular muscles exactly that are responsible for me not fully embarrassing myself/making ujai breath an unpleasant experience for everyone. Part two would take the reader thru the annals of my more dedicated yoga practice as I try to solve the puzzle of how to pinch no or very little fabric of my yoga pants betwixt the flesh that hugs my sits bones as I pass thru chataranga and emerge ever gracefully into full up dog. A riveting account indeed.

But never fear, dear readers, these ideas, while perhaps never destined to see the full light of day (tho the potential exists still), come from a fully active idea factory called: my brain. Where there is one, there shall be more. Like ants. Or roaches. Only more awesome.

food is to dogs as poetry is to me

2011-03-10T09:32:00.000-08:00

I may or may not be setting myself up for disaster. (The thesaurus lists 'calamity, tragedy and act of God' as possible substitutes. The last one may be not the surest fit, but it sure is funny. Read on.) A natural disaster, as it were. I have taken it upon myself to read more poetry. When I visit one of the many architecturally open and welcoming branches of ye olde Seattle Public Library, I swing past the sometimes small but always mighty poetry section and pick a small handful at random. For a minute it started to feel like a chore. So I found my hands reaching for the colorfully inviting kids poetry books. My stringent adult brain kept intervening, guiding my hand toward the more mature, sensible, generally smaller in size soft backs that are unflinchingly devoid of fun bright collagey water color crayon images. Then I'm like, fuck it, I wanna read the bright color poems with overt rhyme schemes. And guess what, they rule. Also, they tend to not be depressing downer poems. Bonus! But I digress. . . Oh yeah, so I still get the adult poems (er, adult as in 'mature' not as in 'explicit' . . . ) but now I balance the scales with giant thin hard back fun poems. Once home, most of the books end up in my room, with one or two non kid poem books finding their temporary quarters in the bathroom down the hall.

And here is where my dilemma arises. I read poetry in the bano. (how do you put the tilda over the 'n' anyways?) (spell check offers 'banjo' as a possible alternative) (And yes, I'm totally trying to divert you from forming any mental images of that last un-parenthesied sentence.) The thought occurred to me today that I might just in fact be setting up some kind of unfortunate Pavlovian response: when I read poetry, or should this get taken to an extreme level, am even lightly exposed to it, I should pray to the good Lord that there best be restroom, private, public or otherwise, in the very near vicinity. This response, in it's pre-onset stages, strikes me as funny. Ask me again in another few weeks. . . And should you find yourself in a situation where you are perhaps reading poetry and I am perhaps sitting in the audience in plain view listening intently, please take the look on my face to be nothing more than a physiological response to my inner workings and not a direct critique of your art.

check out bird's lament

2011-03-03T08:37:00.000-08:00

Over a week has gone by and I have nothing to say? Nonsense. I've just been busy in preparation for my soon to be officially announced shows next month.

. . . And there goes another half hour. I think I just figured out how to put some music on this puppy. This puppy being the blog in general. Check out the link above. Lemme know if this works. This is what I've been working on the past day or so. If you have not heard Moondog, the Viking of 6th Ave (not Moondoggies, they be different), I highly recommend.

And GarageBand is actually pretty fun. 'Cept that it cuts off the titles of the samples you use, so 'Bird's Lament' became 'Bird's Lame.' Very funny GarageBand, very funny.

Ok, off to work. Best to you all.

lookin' funny/funny lookin' - part 1

2011-02-22T21:11:00.000-08:00

I'm watching my upstairs neighbor's cats. Because they asked me to. They are away and fond of their cats, I am near and fond of any cats. It's a win-win situation. Motorhead is the cat whose shadow I once mistook for an owl. We are, for all intents and purposes, best friends. Godzilla, the fluffy not fat but who's to say really because she won't let me touch her with a ten foot pole, however, looks at me like I am an alien. That's ok. I am comfortable with my human form. Being stared at wide eyed by a hissing black ewok would be unnerving if it weren't so cute.

On my way to Geode's, I passed a dead bird on the sidewalk. And by passed I mean took a giant step to avoid stepping upon, by bird I mean the partial remains of one. Two more steps and I stopped, turned back. No creature deserves that kind of indignity. Not having gloves of any kind with which to move the bird with, I scooted it with the toe of my boot. In the process, I lost my balance and stepped on the wing, almost snapping it. Finally placing it on the grass by the white picket fence, I looked up to see if anyone was watching me. At the exact moment that the fear 'people are gonna think I'm crazy' crossed my mind, I espied Bo Oddessy walking up the sidewalk on the other side of John St. He is dressed rather tame today, a bright orange knit cap, grayish pink wool coat, and tan kilty skirt. I know the twinkling sounds surrounding him are emanating from a fanny pack hidden by the folds of his coat, though, I like to think that it is his white beard making that sound. He turns the corner, I turn back to the bird. In lieu of a proper burial (or perhaps this is proper enough), I drag a few wet leaves over the bones, hold them down with wet twigs, top it off with a dewy feather. I stand up tall with my respects and for a moment, this bird and I are all that exist.

how do we not have more words for GRAY?

2011-02-15T16:19:00.000-08:00

native winterland peoples have a ton of words for snow.
college peeps have just as many for the act of vomiting.
how is it, in the land of no sun ever, that we have but one word for the color that paints our every day existence? yes yes we have several words and descriptors for rain (light, wet, mist, downpour, shower, etc etc). but what of the clouds? it is always just CLOUDY. and the sky, it is always just GRAY. (Side note: Portland, I realized, is more gray than Seattle. how possible? you might ask. because it is flat and there is more unobstructed view of the gray sky. more gray sky equals grayer.) so might I suggest, for variety, we start getting a little more specific on this protective winter blanket we are tucked under. what about 'warm duvet gray'? tho with the rain, slight chill and no-nonsense mood I'm in, perhaps 'wet pavement gray' is more apt? (Portland skies could be 'magnetic gray' to many, 'dorian gray' a few maybe including me.) Some days, I will admit, it feels a little 'cinder block gray,' others lean towards 'silver lining gray,' though sometimes with a little effort called meditating and positive thought.
how is it volumes upon volumes of poetry, song and other literature have not been written on the subject? maybe it has and there's just not enough light that comes into my room for me to see the words on the page very clearly. perhaps it is not the most motivating of muses out there. is it the personification of confusion of neither here nor there? or the manifestation of balance of light and dark? a subtle sort of happy medium. 'stone partition gray' or 'cathedral gray,' 'solitaire gray' or 'campfire smoke gray'?
this day, this day like yesterday, the probable tomorrow.
gray gray gray.
dirty sock cardigan sweater. charcoal smudged figure drawings. matte finish laptop covers. the buttons on my cell phone, the fluff of dust in the cuff of my pegged pants.
gray gray gray, you've made my day.

duck. duck. goose.

2011-02-09T11:47:00.000-08:00

stopped at the light at 12th and pike yesterday morning on my way to work, I witnessed the strangest, no- most magical thing. a goth/punk fellow walking his black lab, followed by half a dozen black crows. they were milling about in the trees, following him a few paces behind, diving down, hopping about, flying back up, eating whatever hansel and gretel crumbs he was spilling in his wake. I thought maybe they were gonna get tired after he crossed the street. but they followed him and his dog when he turned down the block, and again as he turned by the park. I thought maybe about going up to him and asking 'do you realize you are being followed by half a murder of crows?' but I did not, and kept biking.

closer to my work, there is a fountain, normally filled with water, as fountains are apt to do, but in that moment, devoid of it's usual cache, the cement was rain wet, the submersible light fixtures exposed. so, too, drying out, were tens of coins, a rough glittering of mostly copper, some silver. I thought maybe about stopping, collecting them all, gathering up people's wishes and setting them free (er, reappropriating them), but I did not, and kept biking, circling the fountain once more before beelining it to work.

is magic still magic if it remains observed? or is there a participatory element that completes the equation?
I heard the word MAGIC on your lips.
I saw the word MAGIC on the book you pulled down.
it sits in my ears, lays flat against my eyes.
I can almost taste it.

tea break, a stretch.

2011-02-01T12:29:00.000-08:00

I'm staring out of my kitchen window at my neighbors house across the street.

Their windows like mirrors against the gray siding, reflecting gray skies and I see transparent trees warped and bloated.

Usually.

Today I can see inside: no one is home, or the lights are just off, and a giant crucifix is afixed to the gray in this light wall. Someone's bedroom? Jesus must be half my height.

Outside, one level down, the porch light that shines a lightning white streak across my pillow at night has closed it's eyes.

One house over, an empty terracotta pot, brightly painted with enthusiasm, sits to the side on the middle concrete step. It sports some shades of green, but none that match the moss of the stairs. Nor is there chromatic reference to the yellow of the house.

Further down, midway down the first flight of stairs, a crow with wide legged stance flicks a leaf belly up. Other crows spot the trees that lace the visual field that hangs over the street.

I refill my mug with warm water from the once hot kettle and settle back to my desk.

I am doing something wrong

2011-01-24T23:12:00.000-08:00

I, generally speaking, am good at endeavors I engage in. I am a careful observer; my brain's wheels, they turn constantly. When it is my turn, I can deliver with ease. My scores from on line aptitude tests put me in the upper crust percentile of people who take on line aptitude tests amongst other things. All this gum flapping is not intended as a brag, but as a metaphorical slab of color correcting white balance with which other things can be held up to and seen in high contrast, as demonstrated in the above not so metaphorical photos.

wtf.

These plants at one point were healthy. Lefty came from a healthy clipping off a plant at the yoga studio. Righty, from the conservatory plant sale. It's probs been now a solid 4 or 5 months of demise for these two, who went the way of my other plant, long since gone tho I tried to repot and pretend it was just going thru a seasonal change and not the ultimate change of dying, and whose photograph shall not be shown here for that very reason - there is nothing left to photograph save for dirt and I trust that, tho professional naturalists you perhaps are not, you, readers, know what dirt looks like.

Taking myself out of the equation, a short list of possible reasons for demise exists, which include but are not limited to:

-there is no direct sunlight in my room.

-the sunfilled bathroom where I relocated Righty is, in stark contrast to the rest of the building, icy cold, save for when someone baths and the humidity level and heat jump 1000%.

-they drank too much of what was given to them.

- . . . ok that last one is a stretch. apart from sunlight, it seems these domesticated plant beings are solely dependent on moi. this is unfortunate. for as my life progresses I am coming to the realization that the green on my thumb is just paint. and washes off. sigh.

not all is lost (er, in this case, dead), tho. I have three plants left. one is doing quite well, despite its rough start (2 of the 3 sprouts kicked it within 2 weeks of living with me), and the other, well, how do they put it? has opportunity for growth. I suppose that makes for two of us.

until then, I shall tend to my remaining flora and stick to the low light/moderate temperature plants. until the time where I can get this green paint to stick permanently.

whoa, happy new year! what is that noise?

2011-01-18T08:01:00.000-08:00

it has been a minute. and for the next minute I shall take the opportunity to quietly discuss a certain sensitivity of mine: my sense of hearing. if there was a quantitative scale with which to measure hearing capacities, which I'm sure there is (ok, quick wiki research reveals yes. it is called the RMS (root mean square) sound pressure and is measured in Pascals. numbers times 10 to the -5 power are not as snappy sounding as the common quantitative measure of visual acuity, say, 20/20. or 6/6 if you belong to the church of metric.), I would reveal mine hear and perhaps there would be a moment of mostly metaphorical and maybe even some literal silence while you stand amazed at what couldn't possibly be true. I have excellent (tho at times selective) hearing. an odd blessing at times. I can hear, coming up my stairs, if my neighbor down the hall has the tv on, the high pitch whine is like an invisible laser to my brain. I can hear my phone ring (it's on vibrate) in a crowded room, my ears able to discern its particular cry out of the din of public enthusiasm. it comes in quite handy for many situations. and not so much for others.

exhibit A: my living situation. I live next to a pack of wild animals who spend their waking hours (which subsequently become my waking hours) galloping laps around their apartment, while operating loud kitchen machinery and listening to every episode of every season of every tv show imaginable. and when they are not doing that, they are moving furniture. I would like you to believe that that is just a common homespun analogy, but, ok, well it is. but also it's like they are the reason why that metaphor exists. I have woken up, middle of the night, confused, frightened, and ultimately irritated, to loud noises and earth quake motions. who the heck rearranges their apartment at 1 in the morning? ah yes, my neighbors. and it seems their inspiration was piqued once again at 7am. tho I can't imagine the results where worth writing home about seeing as their laborious process involved so much incomprehensible blathering and inefficient, or shall I say localized, carriage of unseen items. ear plugs alone are not enough to block out perpetual NoiseFest '11. and a polite request on my behalf to them to not move their furniture so late at night or early in the morning is out of the question. it is obvious that they love the feng shui. I shall not stand in the way of Love. although losing sleep over it is apparently not beyond the realm of reality.

and ok, really, it does not take the hearing equivalent of 20/20 vision to hear my neighbors every stomp, so my point is just that I am sensitive to all things auditory. including, but not limited to, accents. or more specifically, dialects. which leads me to. . .

exhibit B: the mists of avalon. this book has been on and off my reading list for years. since high school when I witnessed a theater friend of mine carry it around for the better part of a year. it is a hefty endeavor, plowing thru that literary milestone. and I, for one, do not have that kind of time. I do, however, engage in certain activities where my listening capabilities are free (I am speaking of art), and an affinity for books on tape. so thank you seattle public library for loaning me the great work of genius that is mists of avalon on cd.

it takes place in britian. a fact cemented in stone via all their fancy lilted manner of speaking. I have found, in the past, that if I am around an accent long enough, I pick it up unwittingly. I'm like a refrigerator to a magnet. I'm not sure how I feel about that analogy. regardless, I found myself the other day, faced with the fact that within some moderately pedestrian sentence spoken in my own personal affectation, a single word of very british pronunciation slipped in line and marched out with the rest of them like it was the most normal thing in the world. I don't think anyone else noticed. and I was more or less amused by it. and I'm only just finishing Book 1 (of 4 books) that make up the entire arthurian drama, each book consisting of approx 12 cds, each of which are approximately one hour in length. according to some (wikihowtospeakwithabritishaccent), that is more than enough time to master the art of fooling people into thinking I am not of this land. that last sentence would be a lot funnier if I could actually read it aloud to you, faked british accent and all.

so for the time being, you must imagine it, and maybe the next time I see you, you will find yourself asking yourself 'where in the name of the goddess has ilvs been that she talks thus?' again, funnier if you could hear it with the accent on it already.

say cheese.

2010-12-23T18:15:00.000-08:00

I think it is time I get a camera. A digital one. Then I could document interesting things in my goings abouts town. Like that one house that has built a platform in their tree in their yard, for what purpose originally, I know not, but the current role it plays is 'perch for large dog.' Well, more recently 'dogs.' Plural. There is something a little unnerving about walking past a six foot wooden fence and having a dog bark at you from above.
Also, I could take photos of this:

How cool is that? I found it whilst google image searching 'lunar eclipse.' I seem to have missed that moment in the sky, a bit of obscurantism on behalf of the cloud cover. Tho, not sure if a lavender winged being in the sky would freak me out more than a domesticated canine hanging out in the arbors.

(baby seal is still my one true love)

2010-12-21T09:38:00.000-08:00

last night I watched part of the eclipse, veiled at times by a thin curtain of clouds. at one point, two parallel, transparent shadows crossed over the moon, sweeping from right to left, like a analog glitch in a video. hmmm. I looked at my fellow moon gazer. that was weird. yeah, she agreed. oh good, you saw that too. we hypothesized what the strange trick of light could have been then settled on weird. it was weird. with little/any greater significance? not sure. tho the fact that it was a lunar eclipse on a full moon on the winter equinox while mercury is in retrograde makes me think that maybe, yes, there are some astrological shifts occurring that have perhaps more than subtle influences.

one of which is not being able to sleep. tho that could be blamed on my evening visitor. it's like the universe when all manic last night and decided to clean the whole house from top to bottom and get back to all those emails and letters that have been sitting around. like the one I sent that said something to the effect of 'I think I would like a cat, but I kinda want one to just show up on my doorstep.' a request that i figured would go by the wayside because my door is inside on the second floor. but, low and behold, ye olde universe is a clever monkey. on my way into the house from parking my bike, an apartment neighbor who had just pulled up in her car, stopped and asked if I had gotten a new cat. there was one in the hallway upstairs and she couldn't figure out who it belonged to. hmm. well, well, sure enough I went inside and there was a gentle feline tabby to greet me at the top of the stairs. fun! we hung out for most of the night, there was a bunch of hubbub with the other neighbors as we set out some food and a litter box in the hall. I left my door ajar and he had the run of the place. it was all mellow fun and board games until my later than usual bed time when I retired to my loft bed and mr feline eclipse decided to get really meowy. ilvs #1: poor cat! he must be freaked out and missing his home! ilvs #2: if one of my house mates doesn't kick him out in the next five minutes, I will! I ended up just closing my door and putting in earplugs. ilvs #1: dear universe, I feel kinda bad about it. ilvs #2: dear universe, I don't think I am quite ready for a cat.

and when I awoke, bleary eyed and kinda crabby from like 6 hours of sleep, little house guest was nowhere to be found. darn. I do kinda still want a cat. and he was pretty cute. did I just let this little furry gift from the universe just slip past? maybe he'll reappear and maybe, unlike the full moon solstice lunar eclipse, I won't have to wait another 1600 years or so for it to happen again.

(speaking of strange lights in the sky, google, if you will, 'norway blue light 2009.' i found the link to this while google perusing images of extreme bodybuilders – um, i have a fascination with them, their grotesque ridiculousness, the absurdity of the human body pushed to the unnecessary limit. but back to the blue lights, or 'misfired russian rocket' as it is purported to be, it is beautiful. and if rockets actually did that, i say 'fire away.')

yes, moths.

2010-12-14T11:23:00.000-08:00

I pulled my white V neck T-shirt out the other day, I hadn't worn it since the cold weather started to set in, and noticed several small holes near the arm. Moth holes. This reminded me that I took my yellow wool button up out when the cold weather started to set in and found it riddled down the middle with tiny holes. I do recall a moth in my room months ago. I have not seen it in a while. Apparently, it has been feeding, and expanding its diet to include breathable white cotton. If it weren't for the fact that I have not seen said moth in weeks, I would be inclined to conclude that somewhere in my living quarters was hiding a GIGANTIC MOTH. I like moths. but I don't really want to room with them. I would share a bathroom with one. I'm basing this on the assumption that GIANT MOTHS, unlike my neighbor and their GIGANTIC GF, don't leave the bathroom floor inch deep in shower water.

I had a dream where Geode, upon diving/falling into a lagoon from the muddy path we were ascending, swam to shore as a dozen giant moths resting on the water followed her underwater path. one clung to her back as she exited the water and morphed into a kite backpack. she didn't notice so Ricki Martin, also in my dream, pulled out his phone to text Geode that hey there's a GIANT MOTH on your back. Whether or not he used caps has yet to be verified.

running and writing. but not at the same time.

2010-12-03T13:03:00.000-08:00

oh man, it's been a minute. I was thinking that I have been really slacking on this writing business, with the blog and the haikus. . . but then I realized that, oh yeah, I actually have been writing. in fact, I WROTE A BOOK. well, part of one. I did that whole Write a Novel in a Month dealy in November. things I learned: writing a book is hard. especially when you are preparing to open a show in the same month. and I didn't really finish it, the requirements yes, but not the story itself. it's basically like a rough draft partial novel cuz I never got to the main plot point of the book where the main character runs a marathon.

Speaking of, I am quite thankful, now, that I did not sign up to run the Seattle Halvies Marathon. no doubt that I could have completed it no problem, but the fact that on the friday right before the marathon, the friday right after opening night, I felt like I had just run some weird holiday marathon I was so exhausted, makes me really glad I did not in fact run the official one. that and a friend said it was kind of a depressing marathon in that it is generally cold out, a factor that is held responsible for there being zero people out to cheer you on save for the random biker that is not inconvenienced one bit by the street closures while making her way to the ballard farmer's market ie me. that and there is no big party at the end so it's a little anticlimactic. oh, and there's the issue of hills in that there are lots of them. somehow they engineered the route to defy the laws of physics and be entirely uphill. no thanks.

I am, however, planning on running the half marathon on whidbey in april of 2011. now that I write that, I should really think about what training is going to look like. . . I do know that it will not include writing a 50,000+ word work of literary genius. at least, as far as I can predict.

costume drama

2010-11-24T08:18:00.000-08:00

let's add beard to that, too. costume and beard drama. that's what my life has boiled down to this past week. in preparation for the upcoming holiday show (see last post) I have been cool as a cucumber in the snow. working steadily, but confidently. writing and performing what I have written is something I have experience in. wearing a costume and fake hair on my face, not so much.

friday of last week, day to finish all costumes as indicated by my pencil marked planner, was somewhat of a learning experience/debacle. i did end up finishing all costumes, save for a few snaps and the sewing of the split that ran up the back of my robe to my waist, but not without falling into a pitiful pit of despair, practically estranging my best friend/co-performer in all my flailing. I can't help but think that my costume is so pretty because I used up all the ugly during the process of making it. but I got it done. and all I had left to do is memorize my lines. and then last night happened.

my friend was suppose to drive up from white center to tutor me in the fine art of fake beards. nasty weather and an eye infection colluded in the prevention of me receiving her assistance. nonetheless, I forged ahead. i got a scrappy beard trial #1 done, and feeling kinda meh about it, I washed it off for a clean slate to try beard option number 2. I did not get to beard number 2. what happened next was a rare occurrence of my smarts brain separating from my get it done brain. in the process of applying said fake facial hair (using spirit gum and clippings from a large fake brown autonomous braid) I was rinsing my hands off in the sink. the gum was coming off easily. get it done brain did not register the fact that the gum was still wet when it came into contact with water. so when it came time to remove #1, I reached for soap and water, bending over the kitchen sink as I peeled chunks of hair off me. the hair came off with a bit of persuasion, but the spirit gum, well, turned on me. it's like the combo of water and soap chemically altered the gum, effectively amping up it's adhesive qualities, fusing it to my face in a this would be cool, maybe come in handy some day even, if it weren't my face kinda way. you know when you get a sticker wet to peel it off and just the paper part comes off? that's kinda what was happening. but on my face. rewind to last week, standing in the costume party supply store, chatting it up with the employee there about beards, I opted for the larger bottle of spirit gum and not the smaller one that came with extra packaging, presumably with directions printed on the back, and with it a small white bottle marked SPIRIT GUM REMOVER. ah ha. fast forward to last night, just after same best friend/co-performer googled 'how to remove spirit gum,' I found myself back at the kitchen sink, swabbing my cheeks with alcohol soaked hand towels for the better part of what seemed like forever. owie. file under yet another lessoned learned. . . me thinks tho, as much as I favor realism, jesus might have a drawn on beard. at least until my face forgives me.

Friends, I invite you to my show.

2010-11-17T11:28:00.001-08:00

I am pleased to invite you to the latest project I am involved in: HOMO for the HOLIDAYS! A cabaret-esque variety show but oh so much more evening time celebration of all things fun, gay and holiday. I am joining the ranks of BenDeLaCreme, Cherdonna and Lou, Paris Original, and Fuchsia Foxxx (plus rotating celebrity guests!) as we pay homage to Winter and Queer Culture, Chanukah and Christmas, Reindeer and Snowpeople, the open definition of Family and the general sentiment of Love. That's a lot of bang for your buck.

Here are some details:

West Hall, Oddfellows Bldg.

915 E Pine St. Capitol Hill

8pm $15 Adv. $20 Door

brownpapertickets.com

Thanksgiving weekend NOV 25, 26, 27

Start of Chanukah DEC 2, 3, 4

& Christmas Eve DEC 24

Also, you should know, I'm portraying JESUS CHRIST. I sing, I dance, I eat handfuls of popcorn and talk to God. 'Twas the role I was born for, or, eh, reborn for. . .

Ok, one more thing, check out the trailer on line:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYw_uMLkJ8c&feature=player_embedded

this place rules

2010-11-16T10:23:00.001-08:00

i spend a significant amount of time (ok well, not compared to the time spent at my apartment, but compared to the time i spend not at my apartment but at places that would be considered business establishments of the light food service as in bakery/coffee/tea shop variety and require me to purchase things like snacks in order for me to not feel bad about using their wifi, this not being one of the small handful of locations being endangered of falling off my list due to my recent acquesision of internet at my homestead) at the flying apron. i might be considered a regular. i know the names of at least 2 staff persons. i would recognize most of the rest of them in a crowd in a different context (not an easy feat) save the person in the photo who i swear i've never seen before in my life. i'm finding that my degree of comfort with being here has a certain drawback. i'm having to curb the urge to rescue uneaten portions of baked goods from the top of the oh so easy to access bus tub that sits by the water pitcher counter. come on people, these items are baked with love! finish your plates! or at the very least, take it home to compost in your yard. worms and birds practically live off love.

that's all i got today. stay tuned for my massive widespread announcement of the holiday show i am working on.

inner thoughts on my outward appearance

2010-11-09T10:35:00.000-08:00

the other day at work, one of the dancers approached me, i was alone stage left. 'hi,' she introduced herself, smiling, hello, i said, i'm ilvs, 'you're name is elvis? really? that's so cool,' and proceeded to hem and haw about. .. something. 'you look pretty cool, and i was wondering, well, how do i go about this?' i didn't quite get the i'm hitting on you vibe, so i kept listening, 'well, we are in seattle visiting for a few days,' maybe she's gonna ask me where the gay bar is? 'and well, i'm wondering if you know where we could get some friendly green herb.' (ok, not verbatim, but close) ah ha, pot. she's looking for pot. and they elected her to talk to me because i, out of all the 6 or so stage hands, look like the hook up. what? that is not how i want to be seen in the world, nor is it how i want to be seen. cool, yeah sure maybe. pot dealer? no. i wasn't even wearing patchouli. i laughed it off in the moment, 'uh, actually, i am the wrong person to ask, i wouldn't know where to get it. you're barking up the wrong tree.' i told her i would stealthily ask around but in all seriousness, i wouldn't even know where to begin to ask. so i didn't.
i mean, i guess maybe i have a negative impression of who it is that partakes, (lots of great people smoke pot (i love bob marley, he is exempt)), or rather it's just not part of my world, i can think of maybe one person i hang out with that does. and i have no interest in it. i value marijuana for it's medicinal properties, but for it's fun times? not so much. also why you won't find me downing entire bottles of rubitussin for kicks. i have more personally fulfilling things to do with my time.
then, the next day, my coworker relayed to me that, while talking to a renter in my absence, trying to figure out if i was who they both knew, he, renter, described me as having 80's rocker hair. and that sealed it, she then knew for sure that i was the person in question. hmmmm. 80's rocker. . . pot dealer. . . not sure what to think of this.

on a side note, i have decided to partake in the 'write a novel in november' quest. foolish? maybe. difficult? yes in fact. but by the end of the month, i shall have a 50,000ish word rough draft of what is to be novel #1 of n# of novels. this, unfortunately, coincides with me running out of already written haiku to post. as in, in order to keep posting to reach my goal of 575, i must begin actively writing new ones. i have enlisted the help of 'the haiku handbook' in order to motivate me. all this to say that i am writing a shit ton right now. so, if you're gonna judge me, hopefully with detached observation and an open heart, probs my writing is a better insight, not my drugs and rock n' roll exterior.

St. Zuckerberg

2010-11-02T15:25:00.000-07:00

ze chocolate in my belly goes zing a ling! spilling thru my blood stream! . . .

I picked up a recent New Yorker while sitting in the revamped waiting room of my therapist and started reading an article on that Zuckerberg Facebook guy and was kinda annoyed that I paid a bunch of money to some guy to interrupt me, just when it was getting to the good part, to step into the next room and talk about my feelings. It got me thinking again about how this guy is some kind of futuristic sly new age genius. Allow to explain. One of the reasons I don't do Facebook is that I already spend enough time in front of a computer, I don't need any more reasons to tappity tap my mac. Ok, another reason is to preemptively avoid any twangs of owie while checking someone's Status post break up (friend, romantic or otherwise). An admittedly weak reason. Also, I figure, if something is that cool or important, then I will get the word one way or another. But my point, I'm getting to it, slowly. Basically Facebook is set up as a social network. Fairly blatant statement. The physiological what that looks like is all us people sitting in a chair (I'm generalizing), with focused attention, thinking about our friends, for periods of a time throughout our day, ie connecting. If you take away the computer but keep the rest, the posture, the intention, you basically have the framework for massive collective meditation. Think of the potential! Think of the future! Think of the good that could come of it! Well, except for obsessing over that whole 'why did you unfacebook me?' part. I think it is safe to say we still need a little work before we can get to that point. But in the mean time, we are, whether we agree to it or not, being slowly groomed to become peaceful, powerful meditating machines. If I was more familiar with Facebook lingo I would attempt to make some Ohm/Facebook joke. But until then, namaste.

sweet jesus. jesi? plural?

2010-10-31T23:25:00.000-07:00

Get this: 2 or 3 weeks ago, I run more than half a marathon cold wearing these well worn in (well, more like worn well often for short periods of time, no marathons, half or otherwise) sneaks and I come out the other end relatively unscathed.

Last week, I go for a 30 hour jo- - oops I meant 30 minute/half hour jog in nike sneaks I hardly wear cuz they are not as comfy (and not just because of their bright non reflective therefore wholly unnecessary pink accents) and it feels like I broke something in my right foot. I destinctly remember feeling something shift somewhat uncomfortably that last time out but passed it off as regular running kinks. Not so! I limped around for like a week, unable to wear my clogs, single footing a bunch of yoga poses until I got to the point where I'm like, this is getting old.

The last time I had ouchie foot bone probs was when I wore around for most of a day these cool looking old blue sneaks. Awesome in the aesthetic department, not so much in the support department. My feet ached like I pulled something/stoned them and the only thing I did that made them feel better was to stop wearing them and walk some in my regular shoes. The pain ceased over the course of a short few days. So then I thought, That's it! I'll just run in my good ole shoes and my feet will return to their normal state of awesomeness. Like resetting a bone that broke and healed improper. The only glazed over part of the equation is the part where you put a cast back on the broken bits and lay off it while the newly in place parts settle down ie heal.

The running on a bad foot after not for a week hurt, I won't lie. But not terribly. In a, this is better than it was, kinda way. And continues to do so, several days after aforementioned (8 minute) outing. But it hurts in a different way. More of a sore bruise than holy crap, the bones in my foot are separating like an unlucky astronaut floating away untethered from the mother ship circa 2001. I am confident my country/artsy doctor remedy did the trick . . . – I'm sorry I'm at work and got really distracted by 2 Jesus' dancing with 2 nuns to the live hip hop show I'm running sound for. I heart my job. Anyways, Happy Halloween.

Published!

2010-10-27T09:08:00.000-07:00

Hello Friends,

I am pleased to inform you of my recent publication of 6 of my haiku! (haikus? I gotta get that figured out.)

5 of them are printed in an art zine called THE NORTHERN SPECIAL, issue #7.

(La Norda Specialo 7
Jo Baer: Radical attitudes to the gallery
D.W. Burnam on ‘subjective detumescence’
Brian Murphy talks about masculinity with Leo, Claudia, Jeffry, and Joey
Matthew Offenbacher: Power in the Gift Shop
Ilvs Strauss: Five haiku
illustrated by D.W., Brian, Matt, and Kimberly Trowbridge.
8 pp. black and purple ink on legal paper

info: thenorthernspecial.org

Available free in Seattle: at Ambach and Rice, 4Culture, Greg Kucera Gallery, Hedreen Gallery, near the lockers at the Henry Art Gallery, in women’s bathroom at The Hideout, James Harris Gallery, at Lawrimore Projects ask Scott for a copy, SEASON, Soil Cooperative Art Gallery, and Western Bridge. Also available free by mail, by sending a SASE envelope to 1402 NE 63rd St. Seattle Wa. 98115 (regular business-sized envelope with two 44 cent stamps please). This issue has been supported by a grant from 4Culture.)

and the last one can be found at the following website: https://sites.google.com/site/thesubversivehuman/current-winners-1

yes, you read that right, CURRENT WINNER.s. I entered a contest and received 1st prize.

I am rather pleased with it all. Hope you enjoy it as well.

xo.

i thought about it for a long while

2010-10-22T08:30:00.001-07:00

bad ideas one and two.

2010-10-18T20:50:00.000-07:00

while I hesitate to fall in step with the age old binary of good/bad right/wrong that we as humans in the north west hemisphere are so want to do, it does make for a strong title. that being said, a more appropriate one would be maybe not such a good idea idea. or, save it for your diary idea. regardless what hole I end up pigeoning these into, I bring them up here, a one sided discourse, for my own getting off my chest sake, and, hopefully, for your reading enjoyment.

so without further ado, here, using the aforementioned confining nomenclature, is number one: I ride my bike. in and of itself, not a bad idea, bear with me now. while riding my bike, I see in detail a lot of things that most motorist register as an off colored blur, if at all. garbage, dead animals (RIP, non human friends!), tossed aside articles of clothing, specifically gloves, tho more so in the winter time, and a veritable banquet of other random things I have not the time nor will to go into at this moment (does that just make you wanna get up and ride your bike or what). while I have thoughts/opinions on all of those things, the only one that I have carried thru in my brain that has ended up in the delete file is this: what if I started a website, no first, what if I collected all of the single gloves I see on the road, then started a website where I posted pictures of each of them and then people, when they find themselves in the situation of having lost just one glove, they can go to the website and see if it, or some unclaimed glove like it, is on there and a magical reunion would happen and the world would be that much more awesome. oh, and I would call the website this: ONE GLOVE. and when you were on the site, that's right, bob marley's one love would be playing on a loop, just the chorus part tho. genius! I gave this idea some serious thought for a while. this was back when the interbot was just tadpoling its way into our lives out of its little ether pond. I mean, it exists to connect people, right? (says the human with no facebook account). and what better manifestation than that of which we seek out so than the prodgical return of one 5 fingered bundle of warmth to its rightful owner? yeah? no? maybe? sigh. fine, I'll drop it. it would take too much upkeep, I suppose. and knowledge on how to make a website. things I'm not kicking down the door to do. but you gotta admit it was kinda clever.

I was gonna go on to bad idea (I'm putting air quotes around that, you just can't see it) numero dos, but dinner is calling my name and I must heed the sirens call leaving you all in. . . utter . . . . suspense. . . . !

Ina Strauss 1, ilvs strauss 0, Mother Nature -1

2010-10-11T18:45:00.000-07:00

my sister ran a marathon yesterday!!!!!! I am in chicago for a few days supporting her on the culmination of months of training, cheering her on across the finish line, nursing her sore bones back to some state of being able to function normally. something I have been planning on and excited for for months now. something I did not plan on: being almost too sore myself to be of any use whatsoever.

a marathon is not really, as previously thought, for crazy people. it is a milestone/annual event that sane people deliberately choose to engage in. they plan for it, train, raise money, sweat, cry/laugh and ultimately accomplish. it is a learning, growing experience, with positive effects that extend beyond it's legitimate participants, into the lives of those who love them, those who get overly involved as spectators. I, a novice to marathons, learned quite a few valuable lessons this weekend.

1-my sister is not crazy. nor impulsive. she is in fact quite strong and courageous (she signed up for the race as a 'non runner' person, trained for the End Aids team, raised them hella money). I am proud to have shared a womb/continue to share dna/rna with her.

2-marathons are well within the range of human capability. looking at the approximately 38,000+ different body types that spread over quite a bit of the spectrum of athletic ability, it becomes clear that running 26.2 miles is as much a mental challenge as a physical challenge. which lead me to my next point:

3-it helps if you train. I said something to the effect of 'I can see why people train for this!' to Ina and her team mates and one random lady who happened to be running with us at like mile 15 or so. She, random lady, Ina's teammates, and well, Ina too, all cast me incredulous looks of varying degrees. it's allowed in marathons for non-registered folks to jump in at certain points and run with the legits. it's called 'poaching.' and I thought, of all the ways to support my sister in this endevour, this is the one where I can really show how proud I am and that I am here for her for mental emotional support and sips of water of the camel bak I sported as to not deplete her own water source. that and it sounded like a lot of fun. so I jumped in at mile 6.5ish. Mile 15ish was just shy of 10 miles for me. right about the time when my body communicated to me via my feet, my knees, that maybe some semblence of a heads up would have been a really nice gesture. not *totally* necessary, but courteous.

4-yes and yes. a while back, I had a convo with Geode how I am so not running the chicago marathon with Ina, that had she asked me to run a half with her, I would have said yeah, no problem. I believe my exact words of the sentences that followed that thought were, 'I could probably run a half right now and be fine. it'd hurt, but I could do it.' well, number four lesson this weekend is that yes, I can just get up and run a half marathon and yes, as predicted, I am hurting.

the pace at which Ina and team ran was quite reasonable, running for 3 or 4 minutes, walking for 1, the weather was pleasant (what's up 87degrees!), and the company excellent. not to mention the thousands of random people feverishly cheering you on. it's like being in a parade. kinda. and so once in it, I got really into it. my original plan was to run like 10k of it (the most I've run ever before in one er, sitting, was like 6 miles. and that was mostly on accident), then passed that marker so decided to see if I could run a half marathon, then it was only 4ish more miles to where Jacob Ina's BF was gonna be so I figured I'd just get off there. (I'm glad I waited. After 17ish miles in the sun I was in no state to navigate my way back to the finish line by myself.) I graciously parted ways with my twin and her buddies, thanked them for the company, sent them off with well wishes and congratulations. then I sat on the ground, drank a bottle of water, and tried to figure out what the hell just happened.

that's a lot of learning for one day, I figured, so I saved some for today, the day after. this morning's lessons were in aftercare, both in giving and figuring out what's best for myself (eh, my everything hurts) and helping sis deal with the vacuous space left in the wake of any large character building event that consumes much of your energies for a given amount of time ie now what do I do?

dear ilvs, what was that all about? I mean, it was fun and all and I'd totally do it again, but maybe a little warning next time? and maybe not so much gatorade. we still love you. love, your extremely capable body.

dear mother earth, sorry for throwing the dozen or so paper cups on your sidewalks. usually I don't accept gatorade or water from strangers on the street and opt for filling up my water bottle from trusted sources - I even had a camel bak with me, but it ran out twice and was too tedious to fill while running. I hope the pitter patter of 45thousand x 2 feet felt good on your paved parts, a change from all those heavy cars and trucks. I promise to write a letter to the marathon organizers to take a look at their carbon footprint, see if they can get some recycling thing going. I love you very much. love, ilvs

combo science and book report: only one of which I needed to be paid to do

2010-10-07T09:09:00.001-07:00

I spent part of my morning yesterday collecting my saliva in the name of science. I have voluntarily participated to be a participant in a study on twins. for money. How hard can it be? Fill out some paper work, send of a spit sample - which, in my head, I assumed it would take the form of some cotton swab to the lining of my cheek. that's what they do for those HIV tests with the short turn around time. this test, different. it involved a small plastic cup and directions that where particularly adamant about how much sample they needed. FILL TO HERE (red arrow points to the half way mark). NOT WITH BUBBLES, WITH LIQUID. ok, ok, geez. and so I did. and it took not forever, but long enough to make me realize how gross of an activity I had involved myself in, long enough to thank the universe that studying other people's spit is not my job, long enough to think that if I weren't getting paid, I would be really annoyed. instead of just mildly, curiously annoyed. and so it goes.

'so it goes' has now been entered into my speech library thanks to a very interesting fellow by the name of Kurt Vonnegut. I just read Slaughterhouse 5. I may have read Breakfast of Champions in high school, I don't remember. I plan on looking back to the time that I read this particular novel with some degree of fondness.

Kurt V writes in the beginning how he is telling others his intent on writing an anti-war book. One reaction goes as follows:

"You know what I say to people when I hear they're writing anti-war books?"

"No. What do you say, Harrison Star?"

"I say' Why don't you write an anti-glacier book instead?' "

What he meant, of course, was that there would always be wars, that they were as easy to stop as glaciers.

wait a minute, so does this mean, that with our current state of environmental crisis, ie melting/receding/disappearing glaciers, that we are finally coming to our senses and phasing out war? that peace shall prevail? oh, hey wait, didn't there use to be a glacier right there. . . argh.

what a lousy analogy that is, Mr Star, if that is really your real name. I say, yes on saving glaciers and waging peace simultaneously. and no thanks on melty melty and that whole war thing. so there, put that in your tiny vial and analyse it.

Dear One, I got your S.O.S.

2010-10-04T06:18:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend clued me into Dan Savage's online project called 'It gets better.' You heard of this? Basically, it is Dan and his boyfriend sending an internet message to queer youth that life gets better, ie livable, after high school. They did this in response to the rash of suicides of queer kids across the country. What news does not get to me via the few hours I am tuned into NPR must get to me via the few hours I see my friends. This trend is news to me. Which explains my initial reaction to the video: Is this a joke? Are they for real? It seemed laughable in it's sincerity, in it's implausibility. As in, this is really necessary? Life is not like Capitol Hill - a big gay bubble? Then my incredulousness turned to something else. Whatever it is called when you suddenly realize that, no the rest of the world, especially Small Town, America, is not a big gay bubble; when it sinks in that people exist in the world that really do hate queers. Oh, shit, I thought, this isn't joke.

Then I just got pissed. Where the fuck are the out of high school jerks making videos for the still in high school jerks telling them to 'Knock it the fuck off! Beating people up and hating is not cool!' ? Why is it just the older queers having to tell the youngins to just Deal with it, grin an bear it, there is nothing you can do, there is no one to help you now so just hang on. That fucking sucks that this is their message because what they are saying is tragically, inarguably true.

Dear Young Ones, Adolescence is rough, kids are mean, your peers are cruel. And unfortunately, adults can be the same sometimes, too. 'Cept they don't have to hate you outright, they can just allow their kids/other kids to hate you for them and make it seem normal, make it seem like you are crazy and immoral and worthless. I had supportive parents and teachers and friends and it still sucked. I cannot imagine having to go thru that with no one having my back. This makes me infinitely sad.

Writing this from my apartment in Gayville, USA, I cannot help but feel a bit helpless. What can I do to extend love to those who need it? Dan, your video makes sense to me now. I applaud you. I mean, I saw what you were trying to do in the beginning, I just had a giant reality check get in the way for a minute. There is talk in my friend group of joining the project, posting more videos, extending their support. Cuz believe it or not, it does get better. SOOOOOOO MUUUUCH BETTER. You 'just' have to make it thru high school; graduate, move the fuck out of your town. For now, that is the solution. And if you can't make it to 18, make it to 16 and move and finish your education at a Community College. If you need a place to crash, I have floor space. High school can be a sick joke, but it doesn't last forever. Ignore the meanies as best you can, learn to love yourself, life, yourself, learn as much as you can.

In the meanwhile, we who have graduated have some work to do in the realm of changing the minds of folks our age, making this place more acceptable, expanding the gay bubble to include all. This shit takes time, so apologies, but we need your patience. And know that we also need you, Alive and kicking, to add to all the coolness that exists in this world. Gay people can't just conjure up gay babies out of thin air, we use straight people to do the dirty work for us. The draw back is that we don't get to hold you and squeeze you and tell you how much we love you until you are like 18. Which is totally backwards, we know, but it's what we have to work with at this point in time.

So, Dan, thank you for doing this. Queer youth, we love you. Jerks, knock it off. Everyone, it's time we focus our energies on something a little more productive. May I suggest a little something called love.

it's been a while, crocodile.

2010-09-28T15:07:00.000-07:00

while roaming the ballard farmer's market with my bag full of produce, eggs, goat's milk (!), I took a trip into the kid's toy store - the dinosaurs in the window snagged my attention, reeled me in. I don't know if it's just been a while since I stepped foot in a toy store, or if those toys were particularly cool to me, of if I was just high from the sunshine and fresh veggies, but man I wanted to play with everything.
I showed characteristic restraint and settled for one old school noise maker: a tin alligator that clicks loudly when you push on it's throat. I used to have this toy!, I shared with the younger than me by like 9 years cashier, same lady who was nice enough to let me set my giant bag down by the counter and dispose for me my slimy pear core, I loved it! I have a fond memory of sitting in the back seat of my parent's car clicking away like there's no tomorrow, followed by a not so fond memory of not being able to find it soon there after, worriedly searching the nooks and crannies of the car to find my toy while my dad looked on trying his best to placate me who then and still now was never one to lose something so when she does it drives her batty.
They probably hid it from you.
Yeah, I know! It took me years to figure that one out. They coulda just told me to only click outside or in my room. Maybe I'll prank call them and leave clicking sounds on their answering machine.
Ha! Well, enjoy your new toy.

oh yes, I will. I biked one handed most of the way home, clicking at cars and pedestrians, the cool of the smooth metal warming in my grip. clicking at participants in the race for the cure walk, to no one in particular. It's been a while, crocodile.
Glad you weren't any later, said the alligator.
Yeah, me too.

my two newest coworkers, I love.

2010-09-26T22:04:00.000-07:00

tired of running the petite, bagless red vacuum cleaner over the same spot over and over to pick up a fraction of a dry leaf off the ikea carpet, I decided to try out one of the other vacuum cleaners hiding in the back closet. I went for the Hoover Decade80 (imagine 'Decade 80' in cool Atari font), a sharkish grey model with a sinewy blue dust bag hanging like a relaxed muscle and a long white cord reminiscent of epic walk around the house while you talk land line phone cables. now add like 30 pounds to that image and you will get my new, leaf and dust eating best friend. so long late 90's/early '00 technology, oh hello and welcome back 1980. same year my watch (a Casio calculator watch) was preset to when I pulled it out of it's shiny package. same year my other new best friend first blessed this world with his presence.

after answering all the questions that came of showing one of the renter's sound guy the equipment room (at my other job), he, new bff#2, did the unthinkable. a quick debriefing on his school status led to an unsolicited offer of free labor. not just any old volunteer, mind you, a skilled, head screwed on tight, person of quality and good humor indentured servant. egads! the universe has cracked a smile in my direction it has seemed. my jobs just got that much cooler. and easier.

hmmm. . . had my parents had the foresight to see my thoughts now in this moment and waited just one year, I would be tempted to announce to the world my new theory on how everything cool and hard working, yes including me, came into existence that year. as it were, I am forced to re-hypothesize: there was some pretty cool shit that came out of the year 1979, but it didn't end just there. in fact, there was soooo much cool shit, that 1979 couldn't even contain it all and it spilled right on into 1980. and get this 1980, bigger and better than the previous years, still wasn't enough to house all the coolness that just kept coming, building up more coolness like the past is a snowball heading down the endless time mountain of fresh snow (er, or whatever conditions are ideal for an avalanche), so it spilled into the 90's, the late 90's/early 00's and maybe because it's happening right now all the time, that we don't realize it, our backs to the wall of the coolness tsunami, but cool stuff keeps happening. and I'm only now realizing it? where oh where have I been? trapped in the land of not acknowledging awesomeness, that's for sure. so for my new besties, a hearty helping of thanks in the form of ban mi for one, dust bunnies for the other. it's the least I can do.

I have met my match

2010-09-21T14:05:00.000-07:00

kinda. lucky for me he is like 61 and lives in Japan, so even if our paths did ever cross, I could surely out run him.
man in question is a self proclaimed HAIGA master. a haiga, for those not in the know, like me a few days ago, is basically a haiku + image. tho now that I am checking, Wiki seems to have a lot more to say on the topic. regardless, how cool is that! I love haikus, I love drawing. it seems I have found my life calling - to populate the world with non-cheesy short poems supported by equally non cheesy images. I have yet to do one, but I feel it looming in the distance.
and while I am on the topic, I think I might be caught in a lie. not a vicious one, but a subjective one. while researching haiku contests (I have a competitive streak), I discovered another form of Japanese poetry that is frighteningly similar to the HAIKU. it is called the . . .SENRYU. defined as: a poem, structurally similar to haiku, that highlights the foibles of human nature, usually in a humorous or satiric way. what? who knew? the Japanese, apparently. Something else I read online referred to SENRYUs as 'haikus with attitude.' I will leave that statement be for now.
but who is to say if a 5-7-5er qualifies as HAIKU or SENRYU? do I have to give up my HAIKU project over a formality? maybe. what I do know is that I have some more research to do. in the meanwhile, you should check out the first 100 "HAIKUs" I have on my other bloggy blog.
until next time, xo.

Village Idiom

2010-09-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

I write (wrote) this from the comfort of my still standing home. safe, sitting in my underwear and sweater. contemplating children. not so much having them, but somehow figuring out where I fit in in the 'it takes a village' idiom, er, maxim sense.

exhibit a – on my walk to work, I glanced up once from my book to check that the kids' screaming and running was indeed fun based, my eyes taking note of random dude walking opposite direction on opposite side of the street who was also taking in the same scene. I looked back down to read a paragraph to glance up a second time as I passed the two kids to see exactly what could possibly be so fun and realized that had not their screams attracted my attention, the smell of burning would have for sure. the 2 kids (age 9?) were standing on the cement sidewalk in front of their front door around what looked to be a notebook (the paper loose leaf made of trees kind) all aflame. their gigantic smiles and laughter indicated to me that they A) were the ones to set it on fire, and B) probs no one was home. I took note of the 1/3 liquid remaining in the plastic soda bottle by the girl's feet and figured that would be enough to squelch any rouge flames and did not slow my pace down one bit. tho my brain got going. thought #1 was that I did not want to be the old fuddy duddy figure of authority ruining all the fun when things were obviously fine. thought #2: that other adult dude also walked by sans comment of concern, thereby making it permissible for me to do same. thought #3: their mom/parent/caretaker was probably inside and could see them (at least it wasn't in the house!). thought #4: what kind of community member/responsible adult walks past two kids playing with fire and says nothing? thought #5: where was I in my book?

hours have passed and I have heard no sirens. while this lays some concern to rest, I am left to contemplate what, exactly, is my role when it comes to accidental care taking. beyond the borderline negligent basics of sending out a passing hope that the neighbor kids don't burn the house down after school.

making dreams come true

2010-09-07T20:33:00.000-07:00

a worm hole is the only explanation I can give for my grievous absence. that, and work. of both the paid and art variety. I performed at Bumbershoot! a new slide show! it was nerve wracking and awesome and a dream come true. and being the first act of the day, the green room was packed with snacks. bonus!

this is the first year in 5 years that I have not worked the event. odd, but it felt weird to be there and not be so physically exhausted and sleep deprived. but it is an odd that I can definitely get use to. I recall many a morning biking to work feeling the exact consequences of my actions: working 12+ hours days lifting stupidly large awkward things, sleeping not my preferred 7+ hours, washing, rinsing, repeating. for like 2 weeks straight. one particularly beautiful late summer morning, I, bleary eyed, tired, was stopped at a stop light on Denny and Fairview. I looked up to the billboard and as soon as I registered what it was about, I almost burst into tears. it was a freaking WA Lotto ad where a guy in a glider has strapped a chicken to his chest, to show the little fowl what it is like to fly. (ok, all I could find when I googled 'lotto ad chicken guy in glider' was the penguin version. but I think if I had seen this one, I would have totally lost it right there in the street. I love penguins.) I think it was the caption, I can't remember it off the top of my head, that pushed me over the edge. something about making dreams come true. on any other day (for reals, ANY OTHER day) I would have thought nothing more of the ad than it being super clever. but take away my sleep and suddenly I am unable to control my emoting.

so instead of an emotional breakdown, this year for Bumbershoot, I drove myself almost to the point of throwing up with nerves! ah well, it wouldn't be a festival without some type of physical or psychological strain. and yes, totally worth it. see you all next year.

all about love. kinda.

2010-08-18T21:40:00.000-07:00

today, while dropping off a library book to the downtown library's automated drop box, I was approached by an older woman pulling an over stuffed tote. 'I don't normally do this...' was her lead for her request for money. she had bus tickets, wanted cash to buy food. I had 2 bucks. I had been thinking about taking the bus anyways. sure, I said, reaching for my money. I peeled two bills off my more then 2 dollars wad of money and pocketed the bus pass. an amicable exchange followed; she turned to leave, I turned to place my over due by one day book in the box (bell hook's 'all about love.' I loved it! I love you! read it! don't read it! I love you anyways!). also in my bag, I noticed while closing the latch, food items I did not get to at lunch today. specifically half a granola bar and one hard boiled egg. I put the egg in my pocket and walked after the lady. she hadn't gone far (stopping to offer up a barter with people as she walked slowed her down). I caught up and offered her my egg, leaving the opened granola bar to crumb around in my bag. as I handed it over, several unconcurrent thoughts ran thru my head. one - it feels good to give. I have 2 more hard boiled eggs at home. and two - the soy yogurt tupperware that housed said ova was one of my favorite tupperware pieces! it is a one of a kind and I just gave it away to a total stranger who might just throw it away and not reuse/recycle it!
this is my brain.
this is my brain trying to wrestle with the idea of attachment.
sigh, my perfect lightweight egg transporter, gone
there are enough reused soy yogurt containers for everyone. release the soy yogurt container into the universe. the universe shall provide all the soy yogurt containers you shall ever need. amen.

hair

2010-08-06T14:22:00.000-07:00

I share a bathroom. This is not news. I live in a large house turned many little (well, mine at least) apartments. on my floor, there are three units and 2 banos down the hall for sharing purposes. (background info: the way the banos are situated, 3 units use 1, the apartment on the south side of the building uses the other one almost exclusively). there are many benefits to this: not having to clean the bathroom. ok, so that is the only one i can think of right now. but that counts for like 3 benefits. the down side, is that I have to share it. that in and of it self is not an issue as two bathrooms means rarely, if ever, having to wait for a vacancy. but it does destroy my illusion of living alone. and by destroy i mean obliterate. but only on occasion, like a land mine or a natural disaster. like the time my green wash cloth went missing. MISSING! I would leave it hanging in the bathroom for my personal use and one day it was gone. there are no other towels in there save for the drab dark green washcloth that has been there since hand towels inception, looks like. i left a kind, non passive aggressive note – more difficult than it seems! - and my washcloth was returned within 24hours. but with no explanation. no, 'oops, sorry I thought it was communal' or 'i dropped it so thought i'd wash it before returning it.' (to which i would have replied, 'oops, i thought your stomach was a target for my pointy, fast moving fist, you boundary-less freeloading user of shared bathroom!' or 'thank you, that's very sweet. can you turn your music down?' respectively.) needless to say, I was shaken by the unauthorized abduction and the subsequent return of my little green hand towel; my trust, it has been tarnished.

But the experience did nothing to prepare me for the epic hair saga that was to follow. Allow me to explain. on occasion, I would enter the bathroom at some undisclosed time after a certain someone had cut their hair. I am not opposed to haircutting, unless you are slovenly about it: short, coarse hairs clung to the now greasy with finger prints mirror, the empty towel rack resembled some kind of cyborg caterpillar, and the floor, oh the floor! it's like I walked into the beauty parlor set of some community theater mounting of steel magnolias! hair everywhere! tho, for realism sake, due to the drab color of the rug and the hardwood floors, the left behind follicles were only really noticeable tho upon closer inspection, sad to say, which is partially why it went over looked in the first place. still, not good enough excuse for whichever of the two out of three neighbors I had it narrowed down to as being the culprit.

speaking of culprits, the suspects really confounded me. I couldn't figure out who it was. one minute I was convinced it was inherently messy due to dude gene man next door or squirrelly hard to pin down but real nice when you do woman in the other next door to me. both had the same color hair. both were equally unapproachable for differing reasons, both were not me who has always been diligent with post hair cut clean up. and who in their right mind cuts their hair so much? almost as disturbing as the evidence of a sheering, was noting the frequency of it. last I had seen, both possible offenders still had a head of hair. there were no severe hair cuts or bald spots to account for it. I was baffled. and then I put the ordeal behind me and ran for more sacred ground. ie I started using the other bathroom exclusively.

days passed.

possibly weeks.

the problem persisted, to a lesser degree (partially due to my posting of a non passive aggressive note about cleaning up after hair cuts. or shaving as it turned out to be – I ran into man neighbor at On the Boards and he fessed up, generously appreciative of my self appointed neighborhood grime watch duties) (yes, I said grime watch) (but the longer hairs on the floor continued), as I noticed on my occasional 'hard to break a habit' trip to the multi multi use bathroom. and it was on one of these occasions that I had a sudden realization. mystery neighbor wasn't cutting their hair on an almost daily basis, they were losing it. dude neighbor is in his early 30's by my rough estimate. he didn't turn our bathroom into barbershop. he was balding. suddenly, the world made a little more sense. and this dense weave of a bathroom drama suddenly fell away in the face of simple biology. still, thought the neat freak as she wiped her feet after visiting the restroom she had all but given hope on, he could at least age responsibly.

what have I been up to?

2010-08-03T12:21:00.000-07:00

1. not writing haikus.

I have been working on a 17 part collage self portrait-ish using photos my gramma took at christmas this past year. my room has been transformed into some kind of cut out paper scrap recycling factory. I showed up to yoga yesterday with bits of scrap paper stuck to the bottom of each of my feet.

2. dressing up like a blurry penguin and running thru the woods. see photo.

who knew that trail running could be so freaking awesome? I ran 5 miles the other weekend on a whim and (brag in 3...2...1...) came in 4th of the women in my age group. (I'm 31, for the record.) I got another one this weekend somewheres in issaqua. might have to bust out the little red shorts for that one.

3. learning to ask for what I want.

I have been going to acupuncture at this one particular place since september. she is good at what she does. she has a black belt in some martial arts and while it has no apparent relevance or influence on her knowledge and practice of oriental medicine, it sometimes feels like she's trying to karate chop my spine with her post puncture massagey rubdown. I had come to kind of dread that portion of my rehabilitation and daydreamed the day when my back and insurance declared me free and clear, relieving me of this now once every three weeks torture. today I was feeling a little more tired/sensitive than usual, my practitioner, a little more peppy than usual. at some point, whilst enduring muscular manipulation, the point in my glute a few inches below my hip bone to be exact, I kinda wanted to cry. my feeble moans provoked a friendly, 'lemme know if you want me to ease up' from my tormentor to which I quickly replied 'yes, could you ease up?' a wash of relief passed over me. 'yeah I'm a little heavy handed,' she laughingly confessed. 'I've been meaning to ask you that for months,' went my unsaid reply. it's like because it's good for me I didn't want to say anything, thinking that my chi wouldn't be activated without the 150 psi handy work. sigh. so as it stands, I have, lying prostrate, grined and beared 11 months minus half a session of unnecessary healing brutality. and to show for it? a lesson to last me a lifetime. or at the very least, the rest of my acupuncture sessions.

'fruit' flies, not 'hot sauce' flies.

2010-07-21T12:28:00.000-07:00

I've fallen into the habit of placing a little morsel of food, whatever it is I might be snacking on at home, into an upturned kombucha bottle cap placed outside, just so, on the window sill. I do it as an offering of thanks, acknowledgment of abundance, appeasement of the insect gods, because I think it's kinda fun.

This evening (ed. note: this was a few days ago), while I supped on my beans and rice, the fruit flies would not let me be. ah yes, I had forgotten to dish them out a serving. silly me! but then, even after mounding their bottle cap bowl with half a dozen grains of rice, a bean and an ear of corn, they still hovered. what gives? – oh, I see. perhaps there is something to serving them first. before the way liberal application of tabasco sauce. the flies, it would seem, have not the same tolerance for spice as I do. my apologies. next time, bugs first, human last.

Happy Belated Bastille Day to you, er, vous.

2010-07-18T19:54:00.000-07:00

at work the other day, wednesday the 14^th of july to be exact, I was a little careless in wiping the dust off the sill and toppled over one of the 5 small Buddah figurines. it landed on the counter with little to do. well, almost, I realized as I picked up the now headless little Buddah body. I studied the clean break to figure out my next move and to contemplate how much, if any at all, negative karmic value this accident had versus what I wanted to do: place the Buddah and it's little severed head on the registration table with a post it note exclaiming 'Happy Bastille Day!' My boss humored me for a minute but her laughter ended with a decisive veto. sigh. I guess bloody French revolutions and pranayama are not the most compatible. somebody point me to the super glue.

I is hung over.

2010-07-03T09:58:00.000-07:00

kinda. I was lying in bed this am trying to figure out why I was so groggy and why my head hurt. ah yes, I vividly recall drinking half a glass of red wine with my cousin Carol while choppiong veggies dinner last night. oh Idaho, you're really bringing out the wild in me.
I'm sitting in the living room with my great aunt and great uncle. uncle Ralph is talking about hooking up the trailer to the pickup. I can hear his belly gurgling from across the room. he's on his way to 90 (a capricorn! I love capricorns!). aunt Phyllis is absentmindedly sushing her little dog, looking away at times from the tv at the door to the upstairs where her grandkids are audibly up and getting ready.
there are giant mirrors all over the house, hung at a precarious forward tilt. one dangles directly above the computer. what's up with that? I thought when I first got in. but now I get it, they see better than they hear. from this chair I can see the road outside, the tv to my left, the door the the upstairs, the tomatoes in the kitchen window sill with a view to Carol and Randy's house. the clouds are lazy in the sky. the microwave is in high gear. aunt Phyllis is offering chocolate soy milk to the kids. the black kitten has chased some birds up the tree in front. cousin Randy is drinking tea, talking about weedwacking.
my tea is all out, and my attention is being drawn back to the three pacing dogs, the tv on mute, my aunt retelling a story from yesterday, the smell of microwaved bacon. time for some folgers.

oh, what have I signed up for.

2010-07-01T09:14:00.000-07:00

my sister signed up for a marathon. she preceded this news with a 'I just did something crazy.' I braced myself for the news and tried not to imagine her atop some high precipice with an elastic cable strapped to her body. (yes, bungee=crazy). I sighed at the thought of running many miles and wished her luck. before my brain could even thought bubble the words 'yeah, no thanks,' she asked me to be her running buddy. dead in my tracks I stopped. uh, I will think about it, was my reply.
and I did. but my past peripheral experience with marathons has left me with the pretty sound opinion that that is really not for me. a 5k thru the woods with 5 friends is a good time. 41.85(ish)k on concrete with a ton of sweat wicking tank tops and mesh lined shorts wearing strangers? not so much for this one. I will be supporting my sis in other ways, monetarily, nutritionally, cheerleaderily.
but, in the spirit of things done in excess. I have signed myself up for my own sort of crazy. a literary feat of endurance in the form of WRITING 575 HAIKUS. (why 575? cuz that's the 3 line syllabic formula for a haiku.) I got started/inspired in April, Month of Poetry, and cranked out over 50 of them. so why not just write 525 more? and so I shall. originally, I was giving myself till October, which is when the marathon is. but I have not been able to sustain the pace of writing that I started at, so I'm giving myself one year from this past April. and to monitor my progress, I have started another blog:
FIVEHUNDREDSEVENTYFIVE.blogspot.com
five seven five was taken. and I didn't, until just now, think of using numbers instead of spelling it out, but no matter. it has begun. and ok, so far, as of this posting, there are only 5 haikus listed, but I'm just getting warmed up. many more to come. . . I just spent a few solid minutes debating on turning that last sentence into a haiku but thought better of it. . .
if you want to support me in this endeavour, check out my haikus and comment should you feel moved.
and if you want to support my sis, check out her link:
http://afc.aidschicago.org/NetCommunity/Page.aspx?pid=906&frsid=12657

the bothell catholic church experience

2010-06-23T11:21:00.000-07:00

I, ilvs strauss, went to church last sunday. the weather, I will have you note, is particularly absent of lightning thunder brimstone and locust plagues. perhaps I still have some credit on my tab from all those years at catholic school.

for the record, I am not opposed to church on a whole. in fact, I have been a recent, willing attendee at the center for spiritual living, st mary magdalene (er, sp? so much for my credit. . .), and 'word church' (2^nd sunday's at hidmo. its like writing group meets meditation spirit group. with snacks.). but catholic mass, father it has been way way a long time. years+. so why go back? my gramma and great aunt were in town specifically to attend mass in support of some padres they know. it worked out that I had sunday morning free of obligations and the means with which to drive myself 35 minutes north of my cap hill bubble to BOTHELL. need I point out the coincidence that is the aitch ee double hockey stick that takes up slightly more than half the spelling of this picturesque suburb? didn't think so.

I got there early to try and catch my gramma coming in. suzy was running exactly just shy of late which left me time to pace the lobby and try my hand at inconspicuocity. not the easiest feat in stripped pants and a gray fedora. for a time I watched two alter boys adjusting their outfits. they wore short green ponchos (oh I'm sure there's a proper term for that. . . there's a few more points down the drain) over their white robes and one kid was having a particularly difficult time getting his to sit right. with his buddy offering help in the form of agitated directives, the kid gave up the struggle and took off the green poncho altogether to start fresh. this left him standing in his sneakers, shaking the poncho out like a bullfighting cape, all the while the pointy white hood of his robe was pulled up over his head. now, I have seen a few alter boy outfits in my day and never had I seen one with a hood. a tall pointy white one. it looked a little too grand wizardy to me. but little. so like, baby grand wizard. i directed the thought 'put your hood down' over and over for as long was my stare length did not dip into creepy.

my great aunt showed up eventually, joining me in the back row where I had parked myself, my raincoat, scribbling notes on scratch paper. maggie sat with me while suzy parked the car and in the few minutes before mass got going, busied herself with fixing my appearance as best she could. 'don't cross your legs we are not at a saloon!' (ok, saloon's a rough translation.) but it's comfortable! 'take your hat off!' it's keeping my hair in place! 'your hair! it's sticking up all over!' that's what the hat was for! I quietly, respectfully obliged. location and timing and more so the fact that the source of these jabs originated from a well intentioned 5 foot tall woman in her 70's who loves me to pieces kinda shelved my defensiveness and irritation. also, I think it was at that moment I looked up at the alter for the first time to see the crucifix, a sight that made me chuckle out loud. jesus was not affixed to the cross as is the norm. instead, the life sized wooden figurine was slightly to the left of middle of cross, his disproportionately small arms lifted skyward, a long ankle length cape flowing behind him in what looked like mid-soar. super. I spent much of mass trying to decide if he was in a big rush to get somewhere or just to get out of there.

basically, mass was boring. the fashion sported by the general populace was boring. the songs were droned in one part harmony. service was as sombre as ever, but with out any of the incense or stained glass that made the churches of my youth a little gothic, therefore cool.

post mass, both my aunt and my gramma in their own time, each with an iron grip on my wrist, had a priest give me a blessing. now, I have no objection to being prayed for. it feels nice, actually. but to try an save a kid from drowning when she is nowhere near a body of water feels a touch, oh I don't know, suffocating. and slightly annoying. my great aunt's greatest wish it seems is for me to to go church. catholic church. 'please mijita, go to church. jesus is waiting for you.' I straight up lie to her face and say, 'Yes, OK.' the priest is watching this exchange.

one of these days I will have to tell her, in the nicest way possible, that she might as well stop asking and realize that I'm not gonna walk thru those same doors she values so much. no matter what she says or does or how hard she prays. besides, I found a secret squirrel door round back that gets me in just the same. they let me dress how I want, there's healthy snacks, and it connects to a cool trail thru the woods to boot. so long liturgy, I got a sunrise to kiss.

is this a face you can say 'we reject your proposal' to? I don't think so.

2010-06-18T14:52:00.000-07:00

oh, for the love of all things furry, cute and feline.

2010-06-13T17:04:00.000-07:00

that's it. that is the nail in the friggin coffin. I mean, I knew these people had it all funny, their priorities, what with their love of all things singularly auto and their overt disdain for the real -as in not that glossy mag pretty- life creature of motion that is public transportation. and just when I thought they were to redeem themselves with the construction of what is to be the hopefully oh so useful cap hill light rail station, the rug is unceremoniously yanked out from under me.
what am i talking about? well, I answered their sirens call for artists to transform their work space into a thing of beauty by submitting a beautiful, eloquent proposal for a giant banner of BABYSEAL (in a spoof of the Chloe apartment advertisements) and it was summarily REJECTED. I, BABYSEAL, have been rejected. nobody puts BABYSEAL on the corner of john and broadway. and that person is SDOT.
it is time to implement. . . PLAN B. (as in BABYSEAL).
stay tuned.

does it kill the funny? explaining it?

2010-06-05T17:47:00.000-07:00

last weekend, on my way out the door to work (folklife2010), I tried to lock my apartment with my festival key. ha! wait'll I tell my coworkers, i chuckle to myself. fast forward a few hours, we, me my coworker, are sitting around in our makeshift break room/hide out and I relay the morning's hilarity. he blurts out his reply, book-ended by laughter: 'I did the same thing! and then,' he adds, 'I tried to radio it in to tell everyone.' our shared laughter was cut short by a radio call of someone needing a key assist in the next room. ah, festivals. . .

for reals, the above incident is in fact ridiculously funny when you work 12+hour days back to back to back to back with a radio strapped to your shoulder, squawking in your ear like an orphaned parrot. trust me words on it.

the pull of PUSH

2010-06-03T08:28:00.001-07:00

thru the magic that was my 6 month enrollment at Bent Arts writing institute, I was exposed to many an unfamiliar author. one poet in particular who generally left me slightly slack jawed, the words 'what the f***' falling from my mouth like ripe fruit off a tree was Saphirre, of PUSH the book/Precious the movie fame.

I saw the ads for Precious in the paper when it came out but never heard anything about it. nor did I know anyone who had seen it. the book, I just got a 'yeah it's really intense' heads up. if it was anything like her poems, I was in for it. but not purely satisfied with knowing of its very existence, curiosity and the library colluded together and I found myself with a bright shiny paperback copy of it.

and it's been a while since a BOOK REPORT so here we go:

AHHHHHGGGGG DON'T READ THIS BOOK!!!!!!!!!!! and I'm not trying to reverse psychology you. ok, actually, do what you want, fellow americans. read it, dont read it. you want my opinion, keep reading: holy moses that book is, well, just as I was warned, so very much intense! yeah and I guess the back cover does a little heads up, but a banal promotional paragraph breezing over a plot about incest, abuse, poorest of poor education and some kind of unforgettable journey doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of the emotional raking over hot coals that is reading an entire book dedicated to the topic, the set up, the play by play, the consequences of it all. jesus. h. christ. granted/thank you universe, it is FICTION. but non writers, here's a little secret: all fiction is based on, ahem, TRUTH. uh, yikes.

brings up the little issue of what is the value of bringing into this already difficult at many times such an intense wrecking ball of a book. why bring the people down? what is the point? how does this further the people/world towards a better future?

answers I do not know. or rather, I have not the time left at work where I am writing this (dance belt teaches 20 people of the world to dance thriller) to delve into so deep a philosophical convo.

but I do know/have time to say that it did serve as a sort of existential point of reference. it had kinda a HOTZONE effect. in that, no matter how bad things are for me right now (I was feeling a little emotionally wrecked before i started it. maybs not the best time to read it. (kinda like the time I watched DANCER IN THE DARK whilst deep in the throws of depression. file under I've had better ideas.) I forced it finish in two days while at work. lucky for me, it was folk life and I had the healing powers of several hundred hurdy gurdies (sp?), fiddlers, scottish dancers, balkan singers and crusty jug bands at my disposal.), it's really not all THAT bad. in fact, in comparison, my life is a walk on a flat trail in a beautiful nature preserve. my feet are dry and cozy, my lighter than air backpack is full of nourishing snacks. i am a lucky son of a gun.

thanks saphirre, for the friendly, albeit slightly traumatic reminder.

1 peach does not equal 1 seal.

2010-05-26T17:01:00.000-07:00

(note the reference to lack of internet access at the time of writing this blog which was sometime last week)
a friend is out of town for 2 weeks and I find myself with access to wheels and internet if I could figure out how to make it work on this computer. along with this, I am at the mercy of one tiny, many clawed calico creature by the name of peaches. to peaches, I quadruple as a scratching post, snack machine, summoner of fun (in the form of a red invinsible dot and a bodyless plumey bird, also invinsible), and letter inner to the house. as I write, she is demanding of my attention. as I write, I must take breaks and -ow! claws to the thigh! - to point the laser.

ok I'm back. red laser dot ate peaches' food, drank her water, got high off her cat nip then disappeared with out so much as a goodbye. hmmm. I feel like, except for the getting high part, that describes me in certain situations with certain people. ah, relationships. . . my ankles are being devoured. her kitten status is simultaneously the source of the problem and her get out of jail free card. I have distracted her with a noisy orange birdmouse. my stocking feet are stinging.

this cat has more energy than all the other cats I've ever lived with. combined. specifically, she has moved more in the last half hour than I ever saw BABYSEAL move in, well, the entirety of me knowing her. oh, my sweet SEAL. ow peaches get off me! where was i? SEAL, BABY: I tried to get peaches to lay on my chest like you do when I lay on my back on the floor to meditate. to no avail. where are you when I need a warm feline body pillow? a giant ball of love that leaves more fur behind than seems physically possible? and biscuits? where are my biscuits? sigh.

my black pants are suspiciously free of dander. my eyes, when I rub them from time to time, do not puff up or itch or redden. to console me in your absence, I have only that one dude in my yoga class who hasnt quite gotten the hang of oo-jai (sp?) breathing so that it sounds less like karmic asthma and exactly like you snoring.

basically, in not so many words, and I know I only moved 8 blocks from you, I miss you.

some may call it a weakness, i may call it get out of my way before someone gets hurt

2010-05-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

so i was in the theo chocolate factory the other day (for those who have not been, it rules. they have these alluring displays proffering up FREE samples of all their chocolate to all who enter.) and i totally got busted! the lady behind the counter, in the tender raw moment that existed between me inquiring about the availability of vegan confection samples and me picking out the 2 confections that i was yes, actually going to buy, asked if i lived or worked around there, implying that im in there OFTEN. and more OFTEN than not, i, after making the rounds, sneak out empty handed, half a chocolate bar worth of samples melting in my stomach, beginning to infiltrate its way into my bloodstream.

in my defense, both my acupuncturist and my therapist are within 3 blocks of the joint, im fremont once a week or so anyways, the factory just happens to be on my route. sometimes i need a little pick-me-up/smile in velvety brown bar shaped form. and sometimes i dont feel like eating an entire bar. if i wanted an entire bar, i would buy one. the samples are plenty for me right now, thank you, lady for your keen observance. and for my continued peripheral patronage, you may thank me in broken pieces of candied cacao nibs. no rush, i will just stand here and wait while you restock, you are doing a tremendous job. thank you, now move aside.

aging with grace. mostly.

2010-05-08T18:06:00.000-07:00

(i wrote this a few days ago)

in the cool (as in awesome) wake of my 31^st birthday, i seem to have undergone another one of life's rites of passage. a lesser known, not quite as esteemed milestone as others out there, but, uh, er, which puts it kinda on the uneasy edge between curious and ever so slightly troubling. with a tinge of 'oh, that's what they mean by that.'

the road of life mile marker of which i speak of is none other than this: sleeping wrong. apparently, there is a correct and incorrect way to participate in this activity. i had, in my earlier years, heard of such potential but dismissed it as something with which i needn't concern myself with. until now, apparently. this particular instance of non success evokes the distant but clear voice of my high school english teacher and her encouraging, catered to high school thespian words of wisdom life advice: 'if you're gonna fail, fail big.' somewhere in the suburbs of portland, a high school theater director (eh, let's assume for the sake of this blog that she is in fact still there) is beaming with pride.

well, i suppose that after getting it 'right' 11,023ish times (not counting naps), one off ain't all that bad. in fact, i will go out on a limb and proclaim that those are pretty effing good odds. nonetheless, my 0.00908% deviation was painful enough for me to chauffeur myself via metro transit to my massage therapist whose diagnosis was, indisputably, comically, 'yeah, you probably just slept wrong.' deepest of tissue manipulation ensued. the result of which shall enable me, as soon as the soreness subsides, to once again bend at the waist (aka deepest hip flextion(sp?)) beyond a 90 degree angle (aka sitting) without considerable wincing or calling down of the saints/jesus christ. to that i say amen.

(NOTE: my MT, jen rice (aka the muscle whisperer) is a friggin' genius).

'wearing my pen down to the bone.' or 'i'm blaming it on the lighting.'

2010-04-30T12:55:00.000-07:00

well, i am happy to report, that after a shy handful of figure drawing sessions, replete with generous guidance from man at the helm, jed d, that i have graduated from level one of the sketchy school of Egon Scheile, where my stick figure blobs have crawled out of the Precambrian crayola muck to grow arms, legs and sometimes even muscle definition to march upon off grey sheets of pen and colored pencil pastures. which is not to say i have fully mastered this thing called PROPORTIONS. quite the contrary. looking at my drawings one would question whether or not the sitters actually had real biological limbs at all, much less proportionate ones. or if i had just returned from the scene of some misfortune involving an elvin dwarf, a 4 story building and free fall. but my improvement is steady nonetheless.

tho, upon reviewing my handiwork from one such recent session, i thought for sure a capless pen had run havoc in my pannier and tagged several of my notebook pages. but no, upon closer inspection, the clumsy scribblings turned out to be my full fledged attempts at sketches of human beings. funny, i don't remember being in the presence of such skeletally improbable naked people. . .

this is what not having internet looks like.

2010-04-18T15:42:00.000-07:00

well, not this here exactly, but the gap in time between the last post and this.

and although I know you are hungry, this will be but a snack; I am taking a short break from writing an art proposal that is due man~ana. one of these days I will figure out how to insert a tilda above the 'n'. until that time, I will busy myself with other things. such as aforementioned art proposal (it involves BABYSEAL. if I am selected, you will be notified). and climbing mountains.

yes, that's right. Mountains. I and several dozen others, of which, only one dozen I was on a first name speaking basis with, ascended the switchback summit of Mt Si. the clouds watched from above en masse, silently weeping from time to time. me thinks for my sneakered (I only read the email about the snow after the day had come and gone) stick legs and what I was about to do to them. I made it up to the top in under 2 hours, ate lunch, stared at a sleeping goat from afar, then got a little, er, excited/carried away and ran down the whole way back to the car.

4 miles in 4o minutes, just shy of a 4,000 feet descent.

it was exhilarating. and slightly painful. at mile 2 my thighs started to doubt my sanity. mile 3, both my big toes, speaking for the 8 others, began to protest. everyone held their muscley tongues till we all got down in one piece and now, with each step I take, each getting up from sitting down in my seat, their screaming is all I can hear. never have such a solid percentage of my legs been so sore to the touch. never have I attempted such back to nature tomfoolery. never have I applied so much arnica to so much of my body. never has all this ouchiness been so worth it.

next week, rattlesnake ridge trail. updates to follow.

haiku machine

2010-03-28T08:50:00.000-07:00

not the greatest excuse as to why have you not been blogging:
i have no access
to the internet at my
sweet new apartment.

last week's creative writing homework:
i was asked to write
some haikus on the topic
of anything gay.

(so here we go)

untitled:
like attracts like like
a bright satellite bent at
the orbit, yearning.

the iron in my blood:
your hand on my neck
makes me feel like molasses.
lick me off the floor.

locks hold keys, dust hides change:
oh elegant queen,
you glitter like diamonds with
5 o'clock shadows.

driveways to homes i've lived in:
before i went femme,
gravel crunching high heeled shoes,
i was a tomboy.

you steady yourself as you walk past me on the bus:
face pressed against chest
oh my, i can see you slip
you hand in my purse.

the reason:
if yr wondering
why how the awesome haircut
it's because i'm gay.

haiku for you.

2010-03-16T19:28:00.000-07:00

it has a delay

of about, oh, I don't know,

3 m - oops, there it goes.

if it takes more than 5 minutes to think of a title, it's probs time to go to sleep

2010-03-10T21:34:00.000-08:00

I have been absurdly derelict in my blogging.
and all I have to show for it is this:

the other morning, while covering a shift for my outs of town partner, I vacuumed up off the bar balcony floor, a MENTOS. my initial surprise at the ferocity of the vacuum to choke down a sizable piece of candy quickly gave way to elemental awe as the fresh smell of warm mint wafted up towards my still sleepy face. this made the chore quite pleasant for a few minutes. until the point at which I vacuumed up some 12 hours ago delectable now stale french fries.

the rendering of defunct

2010-02-19T07:56:00.000-08:00

the assignment was to combine two opposing things into one art piece. I understand that hammers are not the polar opposite of nails, in fact, they are more complementary as stand alone objects, but I couldn't quite let it go. the result is what you see here. the reversal of roles on both the hammer and nail's behalf. the decommissioning of a rather functional object (er, my only hammer) to something essentially fragile (the severed nail is seated in thin corrugated cardboard which is elmer's glued on and masked with thin drawing paper). there's a certain David/Goliath feel to it, I was told. for me, it has a stronger unnerving feeling than one of triumph (the hammer and nail were always cohorts of sorts, existing more fully in each other's presence), of something gone not quite right. the transformation of strength to weakness, the transference of weakness on the strong, tempered with the cleverness of disguise.
lemme know what you think.

new haunts.

2010-02-16T14:30:00.000-08:00

so while I was in the midst of teching, prepping, palpitating for my show at OTB last last weekend, I also decided that it would be a good a time as any to move. so I did. 8 blocks SE from old digs.
my new place - studio, efficient, bathroom down the hall - has, as of this feb posting, no direct sunlight, the kitchen is a closet and the giant window I do have faces neighbors who play the radio LOUD during the mostly acceptable hours of ALL DAY.
on the flip side, I have a loft bed, two giant armoire-y closets, which, if I didn't have a loft, I would be tempted to rig the bigger of the two into a MurfyBed, tiny (in comparison) cats down the hall, and neighbors who do not play COUNTRY MUSIC or MUSICALS. either of which would drive me, like a nail into still soft plaster, totally, unflinchingly, batty.
also, borrowing the slight irony found in a certain women's only lounge in Chicago's Hancock building, the view from the bathroom is outstanding.

putting the lax in flax.

2010-02-03T07:49:00.000-08:00

I have acquired a food dehydrator. this is exciting to me/how I spend my last Thursday night. I bought it cuz I'm on this raw foods kick. not that I'm following a raw foods diet 100 or even 50 per cent, but the idea of it interests me. as does the good for you desserts you can make. like raw ginger oat cookies. ok, I actually made those before the dehydrator moved in and subsequently ate them before I got around to plugging it in/turning it on.
so, instead, I broke my dehydrator in with a little treat called flax crackers. not a dessert but still fun! the recipe is super simple and time consuming (step one: soaking things for entire half days. step two: dry for twice as long). the results of my cracker making undertaking were somewhere between soft and crunchy, depending on how patient I was with step two, and not too bad in the taste category, hovering, like a 3 day old helium balloon, a little bit below some store bought ones I've had.
if you were to come over, I would offer you not one but three. not only did the recipe I followed result in the largest batch of soaked flax I have ever laid eyes upon, but I am currently refraining from them for several days. why, you may ask, am I on day two of no intake of this amazing, healthy snack that I personally made and am proud of? well, it's a little thing called too much of a good little thing.
flax seeds are bursting with all kinds of healthy buzz words: omega-3, lignans, alpha linolenic acids, fiber, to name a few. they are purported to fight cancer. diabetes, cholesterol, inflammation, constipation, heart disease - wait, go back, what was that second to last one? ah ha. . . . so I got a little excited when I was making them and ate a ton of crackers (quality assurance, people). so now for sure I don't have any of those illnesses that I didn't have prior to cracker making. and then some. it's like I ate so many that it pushed all those properties to the extreme. allow me to lift text directly off some flax loving website:

Flax is high in both soluble and insoluble fiber. One ounce of flax provides 32% of the USDA’s reference daily intake of fiber. Flax promotes regular bowel movements because it is high in insoluble fiber. Flaxseed's all natural fiber helps to absorb water, thereby softening the stool and allowing it to pass through the colon quickly.

other adverbs that could be used at the end of that sentence are: surprisingly, swiftly, speedily, briskly, posthaste, straight away, untimely, unfortunately, uncomfortably, unpredictably, embarrassingly. . .

Threadbare Thoroughbred

2010-01-26T16:45:00.000-08:00

oh man, it's been a while. . .
what have I been up to, well, I joined a band. we have 2 songs and no band name.
if I could figure out how to get the bootlegged songs off my itunes and onto here, I would. but for now, I leave you with lyrics.

THREADBARE THOROUGHFARE
falling in a cloud of dust, to the sound of footsteps fading
tripped up at the starting line, tangled up in a knot of tryings
i think that i can get it on my second try, dust my knees off, stand up tall
so, where's the one with the fake hand gun, who can set back time and start it all again?

heaven knows the sweetness of an apple
hides the bitterness of what's deep inside
and heaven knows i can let go.

and watch it fall down to the ground, heavy with the golden sun
i reach down to pick it up, i just keep going till i'm laying down
seasons go, they go, to come back, come back around, around again and again
and i think that i can get it on my second try, but for now i'll just be standing by.

PETERPETER

you come in from the outer world,
the smell of strangers hangs on your coat
like dust from the underbrush

not in or out, he choses the space in between.

sweet, sweet boy, where did you sleep last night?
you lay your head in beds of grass, paper dens and welcome mats,
sweet, sweet boy, you give off subtle light.
felt deep within the seams of dreams, the rests between our breaths.

not in or out, he choses the space in between.

you lay close to the fire,
reflecting flames as you conspire
to be a silhouette in my shadow.
so,
make up your mind!
make up your mind!
make up your mind!
make up your mind!
and GO!

(NOTE: you maybe wondering why I have written a song about PETERPETER JENNINGS and not BABYSEAL. it should just be assumed that every song ever written, especially those about LOVE and/or snacks, is about BABYSEAL.)
(and if you want me to email you an MP3 version of 'em, lemme know. . .)

my history with history

2010-01-15T12:20:00.000-08:00

during my 10 minute break at work yesterday I found myself, my boss and one work study student, at the mercy of other work study student's 9 minute and 58 second rant. the freshman was waxing unpoetically about just how boring the classes/professors/TAs she is subjected to are. one class was a particular thorn in her side due to the vapid, dusty movie clips she was forced to watch and in theory learn from. she went on to describe a selection from a movie with already forgotten title, a documentary about the (unfortunate) use of blackface in early US theatrical history. specifically about how African Americans in had to unironically wear blackface in order to perform, the disadvantaged masquerading as the privaledged mocking the disadvantaged. I cannot imagine a more humiliating charade.
'. . .i don't see what the big deal is,' she argued, 'I mean, that's what enabled them to have a start in theater. . .'
I instantly shed the glazed look I had donned earlier in response to her non stop rudimentarily verbose discourse; she now had my full attention. glancing over at boss, who, being the highest in command/oldest person in attendance, I expected to take some kind of action in the form of intelligent counterpoint, was sitting still on the stairs, looking a little more tense and uneasy than a minute ago, but still still nonetheless. meanwhile, spirited youth was still going on and on. this is the point were I should say something. I do not.

I've been wanting to read 'Lies My Teacher Told Me' for a very long time. I finally have it in my possession and in the past 7 days since acquiring it I have yet to do more than skim the Contents and scan the photos. I have yet to even read the full back cover. this is not the first history book I've done this to. and it is not for lack of want. I am a good student, I love school, I love to read and learn. one exception being History. it bores me to tears. the presentation of it, that's what gets me. that's what I tell myself because the information in and of itself is interesting and important to me but the long paragraphs of sentences with names and dates that feel so out of context without pictures of faces and images places have some neurological effect that sends me into a narcoleptic stupor. maybe it's because I am a very visual person. but even the historical graphic novels I've tried out fail to really reach me. it's like if you were to ask me, prone to taking joy from my OCD tendencies, to sort a bucket of sand by color and shape. I could do it, and once I started I would finish and might even get into it from time to time, but man, what a chore.

meanwhile, in my brain, I've been sorting out exactly what I would have said to aforementioned unlearned student (well, I guess that's what a student is, someone who is learning what they don't already know (or think they know, in this case)) or will say if I am blessed with the opportunity to work along side or above her (er, dare I mention that I almost accidentally dropped a large bolt on her head from like 30 feet up? this was before her conservative commentary.) again.
'ok, let's say that that was black folk's foot in the door, but think about it in a different way. yes, they had their 'big break,' but at what cost? I am a freelance theatre tech, you are a work study student. I got called for this job- didn't even have to ask, and I get paid a decent wage. they know me, respect me and trust I am capable. You are a relative stranger, had to sign up for this class, are having to pay to take it, and have to be monitored throughout your shift. ok, seems fair enough in the grand scheme of having to work up the job ladder. but what if, upon graduation into full on freelancer, you still had to apply for the job, still had to pay to be there, and still were not trusted to complete tasks on your own just because you are who you are. yes, you have to jump thu hoops, but you are still working in theater, are you not?
to put in in nontheatrical terms, let's say you apply to work in a lab (this student is a biochem/theater double major). but science, being all methodical and analytical and all, is for men. so in order to work there, you had to dress like and live your working hours as a man. and you were required to not only laugh at sexist jokes, but make them on a regular basis as well. sound like a good time? eventually, time passes and larger factors would influence local ideas and women would eventually, somewhat begrudgingly, be allowed to work in labs in all their unmasked estrogenic glory. so what do they have to complain about?'

more importantly, where was that comeback 24 hours ago? sigh. I could go on, but me thinks I be preaching to the choir. what will it take for me to get to the point where I can respond to such comments in a timely fashion ie in the moment, with grace, aplomb, intelligence, compassion? when I figure it out, I'll let you know. . .

sweet, sweet bike grease.

2010-01-08T12:08:00.000-08:00

despite the fact that the results i got by using, in a pinch, two half-second depressions worth of generic canola cooking oil that comes in an aerosol container were not only fast acting, but satisfactory beyond my expectations, I don't particularly recommend repeated usage of said product for soon to be mentioned problem for reasons of undue greasiness, uncordial environmental effects, general unconventionality of action, and the fact that there are better choices out there (read: products made specifically for this problem), unless you are in aforementioned pinch, wrestling with rusty stuck bike lock under 'gonna be late to work i don't have time for this' time constraint while standing in the slight rain outside of ice cream shop on cap hill that is renowned for their creamy (and sorbety) sweet indulgences and homemade waffle cones that don't stick to the waffle maker due to oleicic properties of on the fly lubricant.
thank you, (kind employee of) ms. moon.

Salman Rushdie vs the Vampires

2010-01-07T08:10:00.000-08:00

buenos new year to you.

salman rushdie is a brilliant writer. I am casually strolling thru his book, The Ground Beneath Her Feet, at a snails pace, enjoying the sights and sounds, the fruits and berries of his labor. while I am in deep reverence, in awe with his natural ability, I am also not 100% engrossed as to not be easily distracted by certain happenings in the nearby woods, happenings that require my complete all encompassing attention: teenage vampires. that's right, I have been, if I may be so crude, sucked in.
my youngest kin/cousin once removed or so, lent me book one of the Twilight series. no, correction, she lent my dad the book. he got thru a few chapters before he started to feel the effects of the teenage angsty romance venom at which point he struggled to keep his eyes open, interest peaked, eventually retreating back to that alternate universe adults call 'reality,' but not before utilizing some degree of practical magic to turn the book into a paperweight. enter me. at first I was just reading a few chapters here and there, before bed, between classes and work. then I got some mercifully brief yet still wicked head cold that put me out for a good 33ish hours. the first 6 of those I spent alternately taking in plenty of fluids (could someone tell me exactly how many cups is in a plenty? thx) and polishing off the remaining 300+ pages of said pop vampire tome numero uno in which beautiful old dangerous white people spend their waking hours (read: all day, all night) working hard not to take in plenty of fluids. or at the very least, strictly monitoring exactly what type of fluids are imbibed.
so, now I'm mildly hooked. I admittedly have a proclivity for the drop dead gorgeous undead. and while the series leaves some to be desired in certain literary aspects (er, book two plot?) and in protagonistic character traits (the heroine's lily liveredness is somewhat draining), the overall experience is indulgently satisfying, a nice quick distraction off the main path. now, where were we, mr. rushdie?

ps
I am fascinated by horror stories and how they reflect certain trends/aspects of society. I read recently that the popularity of vampire movies today has a bit to do with the recession/lack of goods to be had, in that vampires exemplify the sexy alluring measure of restraint. hmmm, interesting. perhaps I need to read books 3 and 4 to really get a good perspective. research, my friends, strictly research.

it took me 2 hours to write this blog.

2009-12-28T21:39:00.001-08:00

oh man, I just spent the last hour+ zoning out, staring at 18+ pages of cat photos on that freakin' I Can Has Cheezburger website and random videos of animals in the snow. I especially enjoy the ones of different species interacting lovingly, playfully. PeterPeter Jennings and BABYSEAL have been known to interact in such a manner and if I had a photo of them in action I would post it but instead you get a photo from aforementioned time warp url. funnier still is fact that the cat actually looks like PeterP.

that smell is my lunch.

2009-12-20T21:07:00.000-08:00

so, for the last, seemingly longest week of my life, I've been on this self imposed cleansing diet that requires me to ix-nay the ugar-say and beef up my raw sauerkraut. why the taste bud torture? I'm trying to alleviate some mildly annoying gastrointestinal imbalance. something about good bacteria being crowded out by bad bacteria. like how invasive blackberries taking over the yard. the sugar feeds the baddies so I'm trying to starve them dead and lovingly nurture the true, internal me. unfortunately for me and those down wind of me, loving nurturing smells bad. like freshly broken wind bad. paradoxically, the ten dollar a jar, made with love, fermented raw cabbage/mixed veggie blend, tastes, well, pretty darn good. zingy even. the epicurian experience is on a whole, pleasant. provided I hold my breath past the initial, I'm embarrassed by association, compost-tastic, nasal stinging blast.

strauss, party of one, your table in exile on the farthest end of the patio is ready for you.

greatest invention already thought up

2009-12-11T00:15:00.000-08:00

following a remedial online search, I came to discover that my brilliant idea has already been acted upon by others more electronically capable than I. readers, may I introduce to you sheer manifested genius: the bookmark-dictionary. it's brilliant, useful. no more having to lug around that dusty tome of a webster. you don't even have to put your own book down. short of having your own personal assistant on hand whose sole purpose in life as a personal assistant is to bestow accurate, up to date definitions on demand, this is the proverbial shit. it's the one feature on those disagreeable palm ebook things that make me pause and consider handing over my hard earned money and taking one of those paperless paperbacks for a spin.
the only thing that could make it better is if the entire gadget, and not just the keypad portion of it, fit within the pages. perhaps a few more technological advances are in order. or just a more thorough google search.

post script
I just read a bunch of reviews about the item pictured above, none of them very good. apparently the word selection is as remedial as my initial research. so until the word count of the product expands inversely to the thickness of it, I be double fisting it literary style with a novel in one hand, dictionary in the other.

why this book have no photos?

2009-12-08T00:28:00.000-08:00

this year I have taken upon myself the culinary task of baking Geode's birthday cake. a fluffy, moist, white coconut cake. I was given a due date and descriptors to abide by, but no list of must have ingredients. I am not a seasoned baker. but I do love to cook. in my 'you say difficult, I say delicate' diet, I do not eat the cattle dairy or cattle cattle. let it be known, also, that my taste receptors equate 'healthy' with 'yum.' therefore, she, on the verge of 30, is at my mercy.
this evening was Stab 1 at Mission Birfday Cake: recently, I fished out of my parent's give away pile the hot off the press in 1984 glossy covered copy of 'Natural Foods Cookbook, Vegetarian Dairy-Free Cuisine' complete with dessert recipe, tucked almost at the end of the book, entitled 'Outrageous Coconut Date Cake.' while I was warily aware that people's personal definitions for common adjectives ranges greatly, my faith had already been won over by previous completions of several recipes towards the front of the book. so I followed the recipe (well, except for the raisin 'frosting.' I switcherooed half the raisins for prunes. don't knock it till you try it, it tastes good. also, geode already punched me in the arm for it.) and the results, in a coconutshell, were 'hey, that's not bad. no, wait, that's pretty good. except for the frosting.' barring strict adhearence to the request that it be fluffy and white, the cake was a success! leaving me with confidence to forge forward, the Natural Foods way, and, while I'm at it, try other people's ideas of healthy and dairy free 'cake.'

the one thing this book lacks, that, at first thought, would just put this book over the top into the realm of best ever, but at second thought, would, well, maybe it's best they didn't, is photos of the finished product. whilst googleimagesearching other decorated vegan cookies, it became quite clear that sometimes, healthy just ain't pretty. specially desserts. no, just desserts. kale salad is beautiful, cooked butternut squash is ravishing. date/nut bars, 'no-bake' couscous cake, oatmeal cookies, etc etc are, it hurts my hippie sensibilites to say it, ugly. tasty, yes. but sadly lacking in the looks department. MY CAKE AND CUPCAKES ARE NO EXCEPTION. they look, er, healthy. (which, personally, is hardly a cause for hesitation as my hand reaches out to snag snacks of any kind.) but when trying for a food item that is characteristically, name-sakey white and fluffy, whole wheat wholesome with prune paste is a hard sell. but know that they are, in fact, delicious (in the publicly accepted form of the word) in a way that only words can describe.

where no man woman or child, friend, family or lover has gone before. . .

2009-11-29T12:53:00.000-08:00

This here is a photo of Counselor Diana Troy of Star Trek, The Next Generation. There is nothing remarkable with it beyond it's inherent awesomeness. Except when you take into consideration that it looks just like my new therapist, minus the hoop earrings plus sweet v neck onesie. I kid you only the slightest bit. The universe has conspired with the galaxies to bring me this fine gift of emotional mentorship in the form of a lovely grad student made in the image of my fantasy childhood counselor. To you, modern day Earth bound Diana Troy, I open my heart and mind. . . it all began back in StarDate 3.2435.18937, I was playing in the yard with my sister, when my mother called us in to . . .

my biologically female body is sore.

2009-11-18T22:25:00.000-08:00

I worked the KISS show the other night. they offered me tix! but I was too tired to take them up on it. (also, no one I texted wanted to go. what gives? it's KISS!). they/them being my boss, not KISS themselves, tho I did catch a few songs of their afternoon sound check, all decked out in plain clothes. it's one of the great perks of my career in Stage Hand, seeing behind the scenes stuff, getting free/$3 tickets. it's a trade off for slaving away, hauling kilometers of cable, pushing around gear boxes thrice my size, dealing with Road Crew Dudes till 2am-ish.
Road Crew Dudes, the ones who work on bigger, arena sized shows, are an interesting breed of human. I understand the ease with which one can find themselves acting crotchety/gruff. I mean, their job isn't the easiest. but for reals, you don't have to verbally innuend other's lives as being lesser than thou cretins. news flash: we are just like you. 'cept we don't know what we are doing because, oh wait, we are waiting for you to direct us. that goes out specifically to that one Lighting Dude who I was not stuck working for, thank you, lucky stars.
but anyways, for being such a Dude's club, I work with some great non-Dudes. maybe being in Seattle has a bit to do with it, but at one point during load in, I was working with one (ok, I am totally assuming) straight (but you would too if you saw him) not too much of a Dude dude, one older trans guy, and one my age-ish trans woman. wow, what are the odds of that? Seattle rules. my union siblings rule for being so accepting/not openly assholes about it.
Road Dudes (Bros?) from So-Cal, not so much use to the gender variety that grows so well in this weather. at one point I found myself standing with Stage Dude, who earlier had been "discussing" trans woman with Sound Dude ('her hands were bigger than mine!'), and he asked me what her gender was. or, more specifically, 'that's a guy, right?' honestly, honesty got the best of me. 'well,' I began, 'biologically, yes male, but she identifies as female.' those words precisely did not go over as well as I had hoped and I think they reached his brain in the mutated form of 'yeah, that's a dude.' to which he replied something to the effect of 'eh, he's a wanna be.' sigh.
dear fellow queer union worker, while I did indeed try my best under the put on the spot circumstances to be there for you, I recognize that my efforts fell really really short of their intended mark and will try harder next time by replying with a firm, resolute, 'no, she is a woman. she not wanting to be anyone other than who she is. where do you want this cable to plug into?'

M., O.W., I'm glad you are here.

strangers amongst us. well, stranger. there was only one, actually.

2009-11-15T07:24:00.000-08:00

a couple of years ago, I picked up my roommate at the time's copy of The Stranger, by Senor Camus, read it, and as soon as I finished the last page, returned to the first page to start it again. I do believe that is the only book I have ever done that with. apparently, I liked it. (incidentally, it is not my most favorite book. both Life of Pi and Watership Down are well above, yet I have yet to revisit either fully. once I chose Watership Down as my at work book, I love it, had been talking it up to roommate to date, wanted to relive the lapine adventure. well, turns out I love it a little too much. After a mere handful of chapters, I forced myself to put it down and pick up something less engaging after missing a cue ('sound, go.' warren this, warren that. 'SOUND?! GO.' 'oops, sorry.') for the first - and last - time that particular show. this concludes my tangent.) I didn't like it enough to write a song about it. no, scratch that. I didn't like it enough to finish a song about it, remember it past a few months, teach it to my band mates, get radio play, and be super cool to boot. owner of said copy of The Stranger roommate informed me that The Cure had beaten me to it. it's called 'Killing an Arab.' oh. alright then. well, at least I'm in good company.
but all this is basically just a lead in to talking about THE STRANGER that we, seattle, are more familiar with. our beloved always weekly, sometimes snarky, name rhymes with danger, artsy hip rag. and why do I chose to bring this up? BECAUSE I'M IN IT! HA! I got a serendipitous review in the Party Crasher column. they called me an 'artistic love child,' to take their words totally out of context. you can read the whole thing at

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/party-crasher/Content?oid=2712010

or just find pick up a hard copy and flip to page 65. there you will see a photo of two persons I know and a clever title that refers specifically to yours truly, me. yesterday, a friend of mine commented on the article, wondering who it was. 'it' being Party Crasher, 'Party Crasher' being random stranger coming to your party taking photos, taking notes. all I gots to say is that, it is really nice being friends with peeps who eventually end up working for local media. in other words, big warm shout out to my non-stranger stranger. muchas gracias, jv.

trying to awaken my computer's compassion

2009-11-05T08:49:00.000-08:00

I just spent like a good few hours (some last night before going to bed, some this AM soon after waking) trying to download the ebook, Awakening Compassion, by Pema Chodron from the seattle public library so I can listen to gentle posi affirmations whilst I clean/wait for the bus. I am looking at a 50% success rate right now. the other book, also by aforementioned American Budhist nun - which, on a slightly unrelated note, did you know that Michael Flatley, AKA Mr. Lord of the Dance, is American? I thought that was pretty funny. anyways. - would not download because the program that the library required me to downloaded in order to download the library book wouldn't support the format of the file even tho the other book that I successfully downloaded is formatted the exact same way. also, the 'wizard' living in the downloaded program couldn't find my ipod (this is all I've ever really wanted to use this ipod for, books on e)(er, ebooks) even tho the icon was right there staring at me from the desktop - I had to go the round about way and, using geode's smarts, find it thru itunes. I have yet to even crack the virtual spine of this book and already things are awakening, tho I think at the moment frustration is beating out compassion.

rounding out my resume

2009-10-26T15:07:00.000-07:00

hmmm, it has been a while. . .

so, to bring you up to speed. I spent the later half of my summer in europe, came back to the states and promptly got in a car accident, have been recovering ever since (ie last two.25 months) - a process that includes going to physical therapy, massage therapy, acupuncture, the occasional mental therapy, and taking 3 classes. oh and working oh so minimally.

last week I decided that maybe it is time I look for some kind of regular job. I cast my lines. no tugs to speak of.
then I get an offer for a regular, paid job at a place I like a lot, with flexible hours, that's super part time: cleaning person at a yoga studio. while I don't think this is the most perfectly sculpted gold brick in my illustrious career path (actually, it's more like a bar of soap in the rest area restroom just off said career path than a strong foot hold), I'm doing it. besides, I like to joke to mostly myself and sometimes my roommate, I'm rounding out my latina resume. so now I can proudly put 'maid' above 'dishwasher' and 'farm labor.' I jest. a little.

and just so there's no confusion, allow me to explicar. I am in fact latina. half. tho I look 125% white (how I ended up paler than my midwestern dad is some kind of mendelian genetic conundrum. my honduran mother has been mistaken as nanny to my (pale) sis and (paler) I).

my first job was a dishwasher. not the most fun job, but whatever, it was fine while it lasted. especially when I graduated to fruit cutter/juice prep. I started the job last year of high school and left the job half way into my first year of community college, to focus on my studies which were undecided at the time but fell under the general field of engineering. oh my future looked bright.

farming didn't happen till the rest of college came and went. this time I found myself back at a menial job (bagel and coffee slinger) after trying a few laps around the professional track. ie I worked as an analytical chemist for a pharmaceutical company. for about one month. not wanting to watch my entire soul dissolve in an erlenmeyer flask, or watch it fall cream cheese side down on the crumby deli floor, I sought out other options. and a small door opened to fortuitous fields in northern california, working for 3 weeks that later became 3 months at a small organic, beautiful, mountain side river running thru it farm. I was miles from lab coats, espresso machines and everyone I knew. I couldn't have been happier.

this new chapter in my career book follows several years of working freelance as a theater techie stage hand type. work I love, work i am good at. work that takes more back strength than what I am able to offer at the moment. I'm not giving it up, but I am taking it easy. and looking for something steady. my mother would love me to get a 'real job.' this is nothing new. either for me or, i suppose, for any other kid who isn't working a full time textbook job. I have yet to tell her of my recent new employment (which, interestingly enough, pays like twice what I usually make hanging lights). I think by now she is past the point of being super worried and usually only gets mildly concerned about the choices I make in the job field. I wanna joke with her and my family about filling my quota of latina appropriate jobs but I have a feeling they won't think it's that funny. the look in my mom's face when she found out I've never made more in my adult life to put me above the poverty line. the look in my grandmother's face when I told her I applied to work at a car wash. I mean, I suppose that would be disappointing news on some level to any parent or relative, but to my family, there's this extra edge, a hidden heaviness. my mom (& dad, gotta give credit where credit's due) didn't put me thru school to wash dishes. my grandmother didn't move to the states for me to scrub toilets. my great aunt is baffled (and ashamed?) that I would lower myself to picking vegetables in a field. I'm basically putting myself in every typical position that they, not for who they are but for what they look like, would get stuck doing, would have no other option but to do. me with an education, me with white skin (save for myriad of tattoos - but that is another blog altogether), me with smarts and opportunity. me with a broom in my hand.

It's not like I'm trying to go down the list and check off all the minimum wage jobs. wait. i guess i'm not not trying either. in my brain it is a ping pong debate of 'all jobs are important' vs just doing the job because I can and don't NEED to. no one is forcing me to work these jobs (half) my people are forced to do. is it solidarity? I wanna connect with (half) my people. is it insulting? I can leave when I want to. or rather, when I figure out what it is I really wanna do.

in the meantime, let it be known that I am really good at what I do. that studio will be the cleanest it has ever been. or close to it. I enjoy beautifying my surroundings. I'm already seeking out recipes for alternative cleaning solutions. the supplies closet has been organized to my liking. cobwebs and dust bunnies are on the verge of extinction. at least for 4-5 hours of the week.

dem nuts sho hard to crack.

2009-10-14T16:33:00.000-07:00

a while back, the universe bestowed upon me a small gift. the universe being my buddy Cyrus and the small gifts being 30+ pounds of Brazil Nuts still in their shell. i heart Brazil Nuts. i heart even more free Brazil Nuts.

so then the problem arose that i had no nut cracker. cracking 30+ pounds of nuts was not on the front burner of my industrial stove of a life so i just havent bothered. either to find a nut cracker or to do anything productive with the nuts. wait, i take that back. the majority of the nuts, housed in an old pillow case, have come in quite handy maybe once or twice when they were able to double as a hard lumpy bean bag. or nut bag, if you will. contrary to what you would think, sitting on a reasonable sized nut bag is more comfortable than one would think.

but i digress. more recently, that same universe who thought it fit to bestow upon me a large lode of tree nuts, has come forward to gift me what amounts to be the key to the city, a nutcracker, for 27 cents. thank you u district garage sale circa last weekend.
now, the single jointed crushing device turned out to be somewhat of a double edged sword. yes, now i can harvest the gold out of these suckers, but a) Brazil Nut shells are formidable and my hand is sore and b) i am one of those people that likes to do a job thru and thru, not leave it half done, no matter how tedious a task. so now, yes i am feasting upon most excellent Brazil Nut Creme ala ilvs, yet my enjoyment is clouded as the project of cracking the as of yet uncracked shells looms heavily before me.

on a positive note. i did find out that cracking Brazil Nuts is a job made infinitely easier when you soak the nuts in water for at least 2 hours if not over night.

on a different note altogether, i have noticed that when i spend any amount of time around those who speak with a marked or even slight accent, the urge to mimic it is great. i catch myself tossing out words with oblong vowels and clipped consonants. not to the point of being annoying but sometimes it gets real close to the boarder of where charming meets weird. this is something i know about myself with regards to the spoken language. this week, the written language has some thing new to teach me about myself. i am 3/4 of the way thru 'Their Eyes Were Watching God' by the incomparable Zora Neal Hurston. for those of you not in the know, reserve a copy from the library and check out the fact that the practically the whole thing is written staying true to 'the dialect spoken by blacks of African and Caribbean descent in the South of the early 20th century.' that accent has been floating thru my cerebrum for the past 4 days and it is threatening to bubble out my mouth. the result of which would be neither cute nor charming but more along the lines of awkward bordering on inappropriate. lucky for me, i live in a bubble on capitol hill and i dont have any black friends i hang out with on a regular basis so the chances of me insulting someone is real low. er. i mean, lucky for me, the book is only 197 pages long...

this weekend i . . .

2009-10-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

... hung out at the canterbury and watched 3/4 of the seahawks game, drank 3 glasses of water, shot 4 arcade stags...
... watched the last 1/4 of the paul taylor dance company and stayed to work till 3am but felt like 4am...
... learned about 3/4 time signature from book one of three in the adult learning piano book series...
... took the 43 to university district twice but only 3/4 of the time cuz i got a ride home late after buying 3 apples and 4 carrots...
... bought a nutcracker for 1/4 dollar, spent 3/4 of an hour filling a jar 1/4 full of brazil nut meat...

things better said and done.

2009-10-01T15:55:00.000-07:00

as of this morning i have discovered i like to go for long walks with my headphones on, music turned up louder than usual. i space out, enjoy the mosquito net of invisibility it offers me.
today, mid-space out, i saw a guy stop walking his dog only long enough to hit the beast hard on the back. twice. with some space in between that he filled with some incomprehensible, loud human speak. i was taken a back, half a block back, and started to gain ground on him and him as a taste for green grass halted the pair on the corner and gravity continued to pull me downhill.
i wished for this to happen: i went up to him, still with my headphones on, and with out waiting for him to talk, i said: sometimes i think about how i'm really glad i don't have kids cuz i don't think i have the patience to deal with them and how that probably means i have a lot to learn. and then i wonder about what it takes to raise someone and take care of them and then i'm filled with a sense of uneasy relief that i am the sole person under my care. that's all.
or something to that effect.
what really happened: i stopped at the corner, not 20 feet from where the dog was grazing, where the dude was standing, and just stared, listening to my headphones louder than usual.

what is that burning smell?

2009-09-30T18:02:00.000-07:00

it is summer months of dust being burned off the gas wood burning stove (not an oxymoron. the 'wood' is ceramic. it runs off gas) caused by the abrupt need for artificial warmth due to the sharp dip in atmospheric temperature.

fall turned on like a faucet yesterday. that kind of weather makes me want to hermit and drink copious amounts of tea. lucky for me, my free as in unemployed schedule allowed for just that. i like fall. i will take fall over spring any day.

my only complaint about the turn of seasons is the onset of cold. as in, i never want to take any of 6 layers of clothes off because doing so would disrupt the state of me being warm. yesterday, after mentioning my desire to acquire a permanent layer of underwarmth for the slate cold upcoming months, roommate geode ambivilently gifted me a pair of long johns. a pair of grey long johns she no longer wore because they fit funny. read = they be ugly. whatever, i thought, i don't care, as long as they are warm. i wore them to bed last night and can attest to their functionality (waking up feeling like i was on fire - literally, not figuratively speaking - was a bittersweet occurrence).

but as for their inherent fashionability (or severe lack thereof), i find myself faced with a bit of a conundrum. i love warmth. i am a practical person. this trait extends to my taste in style. but only to a point. i have my limits. one of them being this particular pair of unflattering, uninspired long johns. yes, they keep me warm, no, no one can see them under my pants. but they make me feel tragically undesirable. it feels like all the bad parts of high school cinched up too high with a too tight elastic waist band. and when faced with the sight of them first thing in the morning, they sour my foggy thoughts and make me want to slip back into the dark shadows where no one but she who bequeathed me with these can see me maybe if that. sigh. if it's a battle you want, long johns, it is a battle you will get. tomorrow, armed with a sewing machine, victory will be mine. in the shape of warm, proper fitting, cute underpants.

but speaking of bequeathing. my coronation is this saturday. i am getting crowned. or to be more exact, my tooth is getting a crown. apparently root canals are not so effective in the long run when they are exposed to the elements. regardless, the ceremony is this weekend. i would invite you all, but i am under the distinct impression that my dentist will not approve of such deviations from tradition. er, protocol.

exactly one month ago yesterday

2009-09-17T10:26:00.000-07:00

today is the 17th. exactly one month ago yesterday, something happened in my life that i shall, from this moment on, refer to as the 'accident'. cuz there are no real accidents. right, universe? right.

today i have my physical therapy appointment. i'm going to acupuncture on a weekly basis. same for massage therapy, if the lady would call me back finally. all for free. and by free i mean insurance is covering it. insurance is also covering 70% of my lost wages as a direct result of injuries incurred in the accident. ahem, 'accident.'

allow me to explain. but first, my tea water is boiling.. .

ok, enough suspense: i got in a car accident driving home from the airport after being gone in Europe for 7 weeks. i had been up for about 26 hours already (7 hour layovers in Newark are bogus). we (my cousin f, whom i was flying with) landed in PDX around 1130pm. my mom and other cousins (j (f's brother (more info than you need to know)) and his daughter) picked me up. f caught a different plane home and it was 1230 ish in the morning by the time we got out of there. driving off in my mom's minivan, we headed to gresham to drop off the cousins. there was no one else on the road so it was hard to miss the suv that was headed towards the intersection we were about to pass thru. heading towards, not slowing down, not stopping, oh god, impact. he came at us from the right, i was sitting front passenger seat. at the critical moment, i did not see my life flash before my eyes. i saw, in non slo mo, non sped up, perfect time, car hit car, metal buckling, my limbs tossed around despite best bracing efforts. it happened fast. 1st impact, then 2nd as both cars bounced and reconnected, 3rd as we parted ways and ran into the pole on the corner of the street. deafening crunches followed by a split second of absolute quiet, followed by crying, my mother's, my little cousin's. jesus fucking christ. what the hell just happened.

sober, 19 yr old dude from Gresham ran a red, that's what happened. there happened to be a police officer watching that intersection at that moment. i count that as one of the extremely lucky details of the evening. that no one died, that no one was seriously injured (mom got a broken wrist and major bruising, that was the worst of it), that i am covered by my mom's insurance, that i am covered by dude's insurance, all get filed under that same heading.

insurance, with it's paperwork hoops in triplicate, is tending to the mending of my body. my mind, my other non physical bodies, on the other hand, are under the care of yours truly. . . .

i have apple care but no health insurance.

2009-09-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

THE OTHER DA - why am i yelling. the other day i was describing to my dear friend marisa just what exactly was going on in my mouth. specifically the back upper left molar who is known in dental circles as 'Number 15.'
To adequately convey the scenario, something words alone could not define, i chose to flex my humongous 'i should be grandfathered a masters in fine art with an emphasis in life drawings' muscles and, brandishing my tools of the trade, a black sharpie and scrap piece of paper, i executed with aplomb - or with as much grace and giddiness that my sleep deprived overworked brain/body/self could muster- a piece of work that so clearly represents previously mentioned situation that i might as well tell people i am the reincarnation of leonardo di vinci but with xray vision cuz that is the only conclusion they will be able to draw once their stunned brains compute the mastery of such an image.
the 45 minutes i spent downloading scanner software earlier this morning was totally worth it. funny thing is, i did finally get in to see a dentist (not an easy feat for those with zero health care coverage. unless you are cool with dealing with problems by full extraction of said problem from your perdy mouth. . . i digress.) and the xray they took looked pretty much exactly like my drawing. cept instead of a white space circled by dotted lines, there was darkness.
according to wikipedia, root canals are painless. WHEN DONE CORRECTLY. i will, whether i like it or not, be the sole judge sitting on that lovely panel.

and lest my hygienic reputation be tarnished in any way shape or form, let me set the record straight with the following FACT: yes, i floss religiously.
wish me luck!

why i don't sleep with snakes

2009-09-07T20:11:00.000-07:00

that last entry, the reference to lying with myself, reminded me of the following:

i forget who told me this story:
so there was this lady. (pardon the generalizations that riddle my story like air pockets in pumice.) she owned a snake. one of them big ones like a boa or a python. the snake slept not in a terrarium like some common reptile, but with her, curled up at the foot of her most comfy bed (im gonna take a guess that she checked the single box when filing her taxes). now, they had a fine relationship for some time. snake provided cold blooded comfort, and exotic pet owning cool factor, woman provided small warm animals for reptile's digestive pleasure. everything cool? everything's cool. for a some time, at least. then woman noticed that snake was not eating as per usual. time passed, still no interest in the proffered rodents. woman took note. then snake exhibited some strange behavior. snake, instead of taking the usual assumed coiled position at the tucked end of the bed, snake decided one night to lay down next to woman, stretched out to snake's full length, which was longer than the full length of prostrate woman. hmm, woman thought, curious. more time passed. still no interest in feeding time. woman called vet.
woman: snake not be eating,
vet: snake not hungry yet maybs.
woman: oh, and snake did this weird thing and stretched out next to me in bed.
vet: stop sleeping with your snake immediately. snake is going to eat you.
apparently, (tho i have not had the time to verify this fact on wikipedia) stretching out next to live object is snakes way of sizing up their next meal. this snake was trying to see if this woman would fit inside snakes body. snake was planning on eating woman. w.t.f.
i am assuming woman took vet's recommendation and snake was sentenced to lockdown in the terrarium for attempted assassination via the unhinging of the jaws.
blast, time to go back to work. moral of the story: maybs you wanna think twice bout bunking up with slithery reptiles.

my just waking up from weak nap precludes me from coming up with clever title

2009-09-07T20:08:00.000-07:00

i just woke up from a hazy nap. im at work, standing in the middle of the palindromic paradox that is my epic work day. basically, i am getting paid to, amongst other things, rest and recuperate from my 3 week old 'i got in a car accident' incident. my main responsibility this long weekend as 'communications manager' (a clever 'get well' from boss man/woman [uh, they be two people, one sex apiece] in the form of fancifide title) is to hand out fresh radios to the workers in the morning and take them back stale at night. this keeps me busy for approx 2.75 hours in the morning and 2.75 hours in the evening. the middle, my oyster.
what does one do with said oyster? i read, walk around, nap, check internet. nap again. listen to the mixed bag sounds coming in from the ajar windows that cast minimal light in the room that adjoins the closet i am stationed in.
my closet has a closet. it is brightly lit with bare fluorescence and teeming with radio chargers. it is positioned directly behind me, half the size of the main closet. afront: an awkwardly long hallway. i can see people coming from minutes away. what looks like me staring them down is actually my attempt to get my eyes to readjust to not still helvetica sitting on eggshell pages in my lap, trying to figure out if i recognize the person as they walk up, trying to remember what radio they are assigned, then willing them to take a sharp left steps before my desk and into the main office so that i can continue reading/interneting/spacing out in radioinactive peace.
and when i tire of that, i take a break from my closet to attempt horizontal respite in the smaller closet that is off the main office. i go to a closet to take a break from my closet. and me sans my homies to make 'it's ok cuz we be gay too' gay jokes. . .
in the closet, (___ ___ ______ !) i herded together an ikea cushion bed on the floor behind the ikea frame and settled down for some fully clothed resting of my eyes. next to me, leaned up against the wall and extending beyond my full frame by .5 feet in either direction, lay several mirrors. this room is dark but not pitch. i look over and i am laying down with myself.
did you ever play that dare in middle school, where you close yourself in the bathroom with some lit candles, stare at yourself in the mirror and recite some quasi religious incantation, the result of which the gift of some kind of apparition of the bloody mary variety? i recall several giddy half assed attempts at friends houses none of which resulted in anything more than the heebee geebees. a limp scratch at the mild rash called perfectly normal adolescent morbid curiosity.
anyways. i have since not dedicated much time/energy into staring at myself in a dimly lit room and i was certainly not gonna start today. tho i am a little curious as to what would happen. . .

the dirt: blaming your shortcomings on drugs only works if you actually do them.

2009-08-31T16:42:00.000-07:00

and even then you gotta face the music at some point.

pardon my absence. i have been on drugs. but only for the past two weeks. and really only otc ibuprofen. and when that ran out, my roommate's prescription muscle relaxer. why the muscle relaxer? because it goes so well with the book THE DIRT - confessions of the world's most notorious rock band. that and i got in a car accident and now my spine feels like it got punched in three places. oh, and this happened on the way home from the airport. where was i? you ask. well,

prior to all this, i was in germany, stockholm, germany. it was both phenomenal and tiring. i felt in awe of the place, lost, and in awe of how lost i felt. i rode borrowed bikes along cobblestone streets trying not to see how far i could go without pulling out my tattered hand me down map. i drew buildings and beer bottles. i built up sketchy bikes. i swam in lakes. i was frustrated by my sudden illiteracy and not being able to find a single drinking fountain in all of berlin. i return with an even greater appreciation for population density and friendly usable public transportation. the last two weeks of my journey i dedicated to reading the last 300 pages of DON QUIXOTE. a goal i had set

in the two weeks before that. the full goal was reading all of it, actually, not just the last 300 pages. (which i did eventually manage thank you very much). aside from setting personal literary milestones, i was preparing for my trip by not really doing any kind of research. in fact i was doing so little that it dipped into something that resembles negative planning if there is such a thing and there is cuz that is pretty much what i did. i had 2 contacts, too much free time and a plan that i bailed on last minute.

ilvs, meet europe. europe, meet ilvs.

uh, it's pronounced 'elvis.'

BOOK REPORT: fried green tomatoes at the whistle stop cafe,

2009-07-04T00:31:00.000-07:00

or: i feel really gay reading this book.
i pretty much devoured this book in like 3 days. not sure what it is about a tragic love story between two women that is obvious but never called out for what it is eventho there is no denying it, but count me in. that and i really liked the movie, wanted to see how the printed word compared. i won't spoil it one way or another for those of you who have not seen one or read the other, but i will say that the movie is better on a whole. tho the book does go into the lives of the slavey folk in more detail and that is satisfying to read about. but the movie, despite major changes to the plot, did it justice.
which is the same opinion held by my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Larsen. Of course, when 12 year old me heard her say this (to my mom i think who was standing there next to me), i assumed she liked the movie better because it played down the gay mary s m/mary l p relationship. which it does. and played up the not gay kathy bates/jessica tandy relationship. at least, that was the reason i remember her giving.
regardless i was a little disappointed. perhaps a little heart broken. i had had a little crush on her. not in a 'song by that 80's hair band whose name i never bothered to remember' kinda way, but more of a 'you and i are cut of the same cloth at least that's what i'm banking on' kinda way. similar to the crush i had on Sr. Christine. 'cept i wasn't in awe/scared of Mrs. Larsen.
if ever in my adolescent life there existed a clearly gay, strong role model for me, it was her. only at the time, i did not recognize her lesbianism as such. it was hiding just barely behind the cover of the convent, excused by her title of PE teacher, silently flouting about behind her loud colorful hammer pants. i see it now tho, in friends, acquiantences, in myself. in our mannerisms, our speech patterns, that certain look, attitude. eh, i wonder what ever happened to her. . .
but yeah, the book is alright. pretty easy. makes me want to eat bbq and cornbread. there are recipes in the back of the book but the bacon fat and buttermilk theme is a bit much for me with the sensitive constitution/aversion to bacon.

(ok, so this is like 2.5 weeks old. never got around to posting it. i am in berlin right now, more on that later.)

BABYSEAL is a SAINT. and cries. tears of blood for you.

2009-06-12T21:57:00.000-07:00

two days ago i wake up to a phone call from my roommate who woke up to a phone call from random stranger saying she found BABYSEAL's collar in the middle of John street. not the worst news ever, but certainly not definitively good. i got off the phone with not even gone 24hours roommate and head outside. i found the collar and only the collar by the bus stop where random stranger said she put it. there were no SEAL bodies lying in the street that i could see, so i headed back home.
and who should be waiting for me at the door but Peter Peter Jennings (SEALBABY's brother), Darma (sp? there's probs an 'h' in there, my neighbor's hiss inducing black and white cat) and non other than BABYSEAL! alive! and well, mostly well. she looked like she always does (uh, handsome, sturdy) except for the giant bloody tear drop coming out of her right eye. mother mary, check out the photo, it looks fake, but trust me, BABYSEAL's blood tears are real. (for the record i feel a little bad about getting all paparazzi on the SEAL in her time of trauma, but i had to get documentation.) it was like one of those statues that people flock to holy pilgrimage style. i was close to calling the pope but instead called her human back to report the news of BABYSEAL being cannonized as saint sometime in the wee hours of the morning. since when did being made holy require a trip to the vet?
the seal doctor was nice and SEAL was well behaved. she (dr.) surmised that she (her holiness) got in some kind of scuffle that ended up with her (meow) getting a small laceration on her (again with the meow) eyelid, before running like hell and losing two nails to the asphalt in the process. ouch. i looked at her (furry beast) and thought, damn, you are gonna be sore tomorrow. then came the purr stopping rectal thermometer followed by some glow in the dark eye drops to check for retinal/corneal damage. there was none. but later on the way home, the stuff started gooping out of her eye and it looked like she was a cyborg crying robot juice. unfortunately, no photographic evidence exists of that. . .
so now we are home safe. SEALPUP is doing her best to keep the rug from flying up and away, waiting for half her whiskers and spots of fur on her hind legs to grow back. i am happy to have her home and now am extremely reticent to put her out. i think maybe this calls for a BABYSEAL slumber party: we stay up late watching WINGED MIGRATION, eating smoked salmon, napping on the table. im sorry, boss man, but i cannot come into work today i am busy. tomorrow, too. and the next day, for good measure.

for the record, administering antibiotics by jamming them down the held open jaws of a held down SEALPUP sounds like the worst idea ever, dear roommate whose seal i am watching over. you can take your life into your own hands, i, on the other hand, choose life. (thank you marisa for the crush it up in wet food idea. i owe you my life. or at the very least, a pint of blood.)

we both like mice

2009-05-31T08:56:00.000-07:00

i have been a touch busy as of late. so here for you now is the written portion of a performance i did at the Pink Door recently with modern dance sensation Jody Kuehner. it truly is better live.

we both like mice
written by ilvs strauss, performed by MouseBones.

i dont remember how i got here exactly, but i can tell you what is happening now.
it's pitch dark out and i dont really know what day it is. the moon is a tacky bedside table lamp circa 1979, floating large in the sky not 5 feet from me, lighting my immediate surroundings.
between me and the ground is an inky body of water.
between me and the water is creaky tan row boat.
between me and the boat is a grade schooled desk
between me and the desk, the curling pages of my open notebook.
i am head down, hunched over, sitting at this desk in the boat in the sea, furiously taking notes. my professor's voice drones on about the life and times of a certain historical figure, circa 1979. i am several pages into my notation, when i realize i have no idea who it is my professor is talking about. my body creaking like wood under pressure, unrolls upright, hand raising above head in the accepted question asking formation. only to then stop suddenly, frozen in place in a visceral response to the startling nature of the orator's appearance: my teacher is an owl.

a gentle motor enters the orchestra pit, subtle like an undertow, starts up a conversation with the tiny waves below. their mild chatter floating up like steam off hot coffee. not 4 feet in front of me, 2 large surveillance camera lenses for eyes stare at me from a bouquet of feathers, stemming out of a vase shaped warm (bird) body, perched delicately on the lip of the tiny boat. my hand hangs, still, in the air, a needle waiting for someone to (please) flip the record. the professor, unaffected by my gestural attempt at interruption, continues his discourse.
'wait,' i manage, 'who?' he continues his discourse.
'wait, who?' he continues his discourse.
'wait, who?' he continues his discourse.
we carry on like this, our closed circuit exchange, for an undisclosed amount of time.

the sound, it sneaks on in like a tsunami, the sonic shadow, creeping on in like a curtain being drawn, lifting us out of the deep groove we are traveling. our broken record dialog drowning in the wake of the sound of the motor. he looks at me pointedly, then for the first time in our time, takes his eyes off me, shifts his focus, peers down into the water. i follow his gaze, the furled pages of my notebook waving lazily out of the corner of my eye.
on the water is a tan creaky boat,
on the boat is a grade schooled desk,
on the desk is a curled paged notebook,
and sitting by the notebook on the desk in the boat on the water, the author, hand held high in a posture of prosperity, the singular answer to a question not yet asked: the student is a cat.

i stare at my catself in the water that could be sky that could be one night or another, day as dark as night. suddenly, sweetly, it occurs to me, the motor is me, i am purring. my hand lowers to my chest and it feels like rain, or birds taking flight i'm not sure which. then, the clack whir sound of a shutter opening and closing. i look up, up towards the noise, up towards my professor the owl, (pause) the owl is gone.
between me and the water is a continuation of what is,
between me and the boat is a continuation of what is,
between me and the desk is a continuation of what is.
between me and my notebook is a continuation of what is.

Orgy of Tolerance or Great, Now My Clothes Smell Like Smoke.

2009-05-18T11:32:00.000-07:00

i just posted my review on the On the Boards blog posing it as a response to Ben Zamora's review. for your convenience, i will repeat myself here:

the company was upset that i kissed her. she was beautiful - glossy magazine beautiful, fragile, fey. her blue eyes matched her large blue beaded necklace that somehow went with her maroon mumu that complemented her blond hair. she was a psychic dressed like a caricature of a physic.

upon my return to the theater, i found her friends, her company, sitting in the second row, an air of malice about them. not ones to confront, i discovered they took their anger out on me in a more tangible, property damaging, just-wait-till-she-gets-back manner. upon the stage, my oversized canoe looking suitcase was littered with trash, soggy and soiled with Coca Cola. my property, my things, pristine and cherished, left unattended, had been intentionally ruined. and that is when i uncharacteristically lost my shit.

i pulled a rifle on the would be ring leader, some brunette wearing her contempt on her face like a fancy lotion. i yanked her out of her seat, pushed her to the ground and with the gun held to her head, let every ounce of rage i didnt know i had rain upon her now trembling body in an unfettered downpour. this went on for an uninterrupted amount of time, during which the still observer part of me became consciously aware of this woman's raw fear, her helplessness, the utter futility/stupidity of what the moving active part of me was doing. i stopped abruptly. 'i'm sorry,' i told her, lifting the gun away from her teary face, 'this isn't helping.' the theater was silent save for the echos of her sobs.

had i not taken the time to write this dream down soon after waking, my memory of it, my impression of it, much like that of the performance, would have been forgotten, buried under the footsteps of my waking life.

peacelove,

ilvs

*********

now, the only other point of contention i have is:

dear hot belgian dancer,

instead of imposing yourself all over a fancy old bicycle, you should have done so all over a fancy automobile. we are a car culture. americans hate bicycles. we run them over. if you're gonna throw a glossy, euro chic, cultural critique at us about our own selves, you should at least get the details down.

muchas gracias,

ilvs

the oh so real sting of virtual loss: part II

2009-05-15T13:35:00.000-07:00

i stare at my little black laptop, standing here, deciding. the cats are sleeping, traffic is moving along john st, the sun is coming thru the windows. i feel a breeze. i am weighing my options, my heart is heavy.

basically the only way to fix it is to return it to the factory settings. he broke the news to me with little fanfare. reset the computer. i think about the implications. in doing so i would lose all documents. everything would be wiped clean. there is no way to retrieve the files? no secret code or anything? no sorry, ma'am. this is breaking my heart a little, i tell him. not so much to elicit sympathy, but just to verbalize that a crater just landed in my chest and im feeling a little woozy from it. i was about to hang up, tell him thanks anyways, when he slips me this one last piece of hope. you should try this website, there are a lot of informed folks on there, you might be able to find something. i felt like, in that tv movie, where the girl gets pregnant by some unfortunate circumstance and wants an abortion but cant get one cuz it's illegal and it seems there is no hope until the doctor, taking pity and risking his own license, sneaks her a slip of paper with a name of a doctor 'who can help,' and she leaves quickly with tears in her eyes, hands clutching the tiny parchment that could very well be her salvation. ok, except that is way more dramatic than my situation. not to mention im not going to get pregnant and abortions are legal. regardless. i wrote the website down and followed the links. fingers crossed.

i bought this little black laptop like a month ago so i wouldn't have to lug my super expensive apple around town. it rules. i use it for my writing. for my ideas. my scripts. my slide shows. i was typing away on it at work the other day when i had the idea that maybe i should change it so it requires me to log on first. like a golden latch on a diary. i unclicked the log me on automatically box and chose a clever password. then i restarted the puppy. it asked me, ilvs, for my password. i enter it in. INVALID PASSWORD. uh, excuse me? i try again. and again. and again. . . something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.

apparently i am not the first to lock themselves out of their own computer. following posted email threads, there are others like me, frustrated, at wits end, driven to use ALL CAPS FOLLOWED BY !!!!!!!!!!! yes, i feel you. i follow a few links and it gets me to some how to hack your own computer page of directions. ah! there is hope. after much reading and rereading, i tentatively begin my reclamation process. i get past step one. success. i get to step two and hit a major hurdle. alas, my love for penguins does not transfer into linux code savviness. i give up for fear of fucking up my computer permanently.

so then i move to option 2: ask for human help. i email the nerdiest (read: he builds his own computers) friend i know. he also does not speak the linux, but is willing to help. next monday evening. today is friday (ok, saturday, but i wrote most of this friday) . i am biding my time.

last chance to back out. y. e... . s. i hit return for a second time and instantly burst into a short sob. the sting of loss. irretrievable loss. my shit is gone and there is no going back. my brief grief is quickly replaced by a the shallow high twenty minutes after my email s.o.s., im standing in my living room/office/foyay/really it's all one room cuz i live in a studio. i decide to hell with it and rip the bandaid off myself. i highlight RESTORE FACTORY SETTINGS, i hold my breath, i hit return. it prompts me to type in yes. one last chance to go back. i hesitate. y. e. . . fuck it, s. i instantly burst into a short sob. the sting of irretrievable loss. my work is done, my writing gone. there is no going back. my brief grief is quickly replaced by the shallow high of well, you did it. fully knowing that the full reprocutions of your actions will be felt more fully in the not so distant future. . .

moral of the story: when life gives you lemons, document the hell out of it. make backups. print out your final drafts. at the very least, share your ideas so that they exist in the safety of someone else's thoughts.

BOOK REPORT - Immunity. (the first 43 pages, at least)

2009-05-13T07:14:00.000-07:00

i read moby dick. earlier this year. it took me approximately 3 months to do so. but i did it. it is done. and it was worth it. i won't go into the details cuz, well, you are probably familiar with the gist of it. but what i will tell you is that it has inspired me (that and the most recent library book sale) to catch up on my classics/must read reading. like the somewhat arbitrary top 100 novels of all time. instead of being intimidated, i thought, you know what, im gonna do it, read all 100 novels, be 'caught up,' be that person who knows all those obscure literary references, pretend i majored in american lit.

but then reason kicked in. 100 books is a lot. and some sound really boring (no offense tolstoy!). and how come marquez is like the only hispanic/latino on the list? and he only shows up on like 5 of the 7 thousand versions of the top 100 list. so i made some modifications on the list. i still wanna read the books. but i also want to read not so caucasian authors. and those other people, what do you call them? women? yeah. so my new goal reads that from this day forth i shall read: books on the 'top 100' list, books by persons of color, books by women, and the occasional science (fiction) book. oh, and the occasional inspirational spirituality book.

and not one of those criteria is reason for me putting down my latest book after only 43 pages. introducing Immunity, by Lori Andrews. i picked it up cuz it was on the list of reads for the Women's Bioethics Book Club. why am i not going to finish this book? several reasons: for one, i have already touched on the topic of mysterious deadly diseases with my new friend Richard Preston (see BOOK REPORT - The Hot Zone). for two, the writing does not capture me. probably because im too distracted by reason three: there is a love story a-brewing between the main character (army research lady) and some DEA agent (passionate mandude with curly hair) and it is irritating. now, i dont mind the occasional love story. just as long as it doesnt come with a side of 'hard on'. (um, author's words). call me crazy, or bored of ubiquitous hetero narrative, or just plain gay, but i ain't got time for this bad romance novel/terribly infectious virus charade. i got other books to read. next up: Margaret Atwood. right after i finish How to Change Your Life in 5 Steps.

i like your dead bird better.

2009-05-08T18:39:00.000-07:00

i was just at the BFA art show for Cornish grads. free wine, free snacks, free art. i recommend (tho the wine and snack bit was just for tonight's opening).
one artist's work in particular (kelsey fein)(sp?) (photos/woodcuts of dead birds) reminded me of a story:
my roommate's friend was visiting our portland abode from some exotic far away locale. minnesota or something. she was in town for some conference about what i can't remember. she had long dark hair and something about her made me think, witch? i saw very little of her, due mostly to my work schedule. she left a few days later without saying goodbye. she left behind a brown bag of personal affects.
curiosity, fueled by being home alone, led me to search the bag of it's mysterious contents. (ok, that and i knew that she had called my roommate to say she left behind some boots. i'm not really a snoop.) one pair of black high heeled boots, accounted for. one bag of chex mix, score. one plastic ziplock sammich bag with something black in it, hmmm some thing told me i should not bring the bag regrettably close to my face for further inspection. so what did i do? i brought the bag regrettably close to my face for further inspection. it looked like human hair. wet. and clumpy. and black. and crawling with maggots! i flung the bag back in the bag and left it for my roommate to deal with. . .
a week or so later, i come to find out that the bag of human hair was in fact the delicate remains of a dead bird. she was an artist and collected bird wings.
kelsey fein, i like your dead birds better.