first year, paper

I’m not one to toot my own horn.

Oh, wait.

Yeah, I am.

Well, this is no exception then. Today is my one year blogiversary! Yay for me! It marks the 366th day of thinking myself a writer. That’s something. It also has helped me make new friends and reconnect with old ones. It’s painstakingly tracked my progress through a whirlwind year and provides the stage from which I can look back and say: what the FUCK was I thinking?!? I’ve come a long way.

So thanks for reading my drivel! I wouldn’t be half as motivated to write if it weren’t for the comments and camaraderie. Y’all are the shit, you know that, right? You did? Good.

Cheers, everybody!

folding a paper bird

This is what this sentence would look like without vowels: Ths s wht ths sntnc wld lk wtht vwls.

Hi.

I’m home sick today. And on cold medicine. I have a box of tissue at the ready and I’m fighting a near constant urge to nap. That’s how I know I’m sick. The napping. I can’t really nap unless I’m under the weather. I can rest. I can lay about. By no means is my lack of napping an endorsement of constant activity. Quite the contrary! But when I zonk out in the afternoon, you best go to Walgreen’s and hook me up with some Day-quil, because chances are I’ll need it when I wake up.

The worst part of being sick so far: I missed Six Feet Under at Laura’s house because I was feeling too icky. She said she’d “on-demand” it for me when I’m better. That Laura, always saving the day.

Best thing about being sick so far: hanging out with my kitten. Uh-huh uh-huh yo yo. Rad.

I keep thinking up names for our soon to be art collective. Now this isn’t the kind of art collective that springs to mind upon reading those words. I, nor anyone in the fold, will wear multicolored quilt like skirts. We won’t wash berries in the river or walk around nude in that not-so-sexy kind of way. We won’t have sing-a-longs or let our armpit hair grow. And I dare say that our first official act as a collective will be banning all granola like substances from the premises. You see, we’re gonna be more rock ‘n roll than that. We’re gonna have theme shows on zany topics and occasionally dress like superheros.

The gallery space is in a way cool building that is the hub of this way cool monthly event called First Thursday. It’s on, um, yeah, the first Thursday of each month and all the art spaces and galleries in Pioneer Square are open for walk throughs and peek ins and for purchasing art from people who could use the cash. For drugs! There is music in the halls and hundreds of people making their way through and around the building. It’s a swell time and if you haven’t been already, you should go!

So the names: Henry Says Hi. Sleep Spelled Backwards. Pensive Lemon. Math Donut. Lemonade Carwash. Glue All. Side Up Down. Ya’am. Superhero Banana. Sugar Sticky. And. That’s all. I bet it will be none of these. My favorite though - Henry Says Hi. I think I’ll make it the name of my pretend band.

Pretend bands are better than real ones!

Speaking of pretend bands and not that we were speaking of them, but let’s throw “teenaged day dreams” in the mix for fun. I start my gee-tar lessons in two weeks. My would-be instructor, herein referred to as Flirty Ken, is on vacation until then. So I have just two more weeks of my fake playing before it’s replaced by slow, clunky and out of tune playing. Neighbors - consider yourself warned.

Number of times I’ve blown my nose while typing this nonsense: Four

Number of naps I’ve taken today: Three

Number of glasses of orange juice consumed so far: Two

Number of things in this apartment that are enthusiastically chasing a bug: One (hint: it’s not me)

tweet

I met a girl who is a lot like me while not being like me at all. She is quieter. More demure. More girl-like. Makes me realize what a cad I am. Burping and not combing my hair for days on end. If I’m not careful I’m going to get scooped up by one of the many Missions in my neighborhood for some hot soup and a roll.

This girl creates urges in me for beauty products and cute “outfits.”

We bonded over beer drinks at a dive bar on Capitol Hill. The music was loud and punk rock. We were at a two top over by the pool table. The boys playing there kept prowling around us, apologizing as they slid up against her or me to make the shot. They smelled like sweat and sexy in their tight t-shirts and low rise jeans. We yelled over the music. Yelled about how each of us had been spit out in Seattle for jobs that were too good too pass up. Yelled about how our business’ had went under. Yelled about how we went from never worrying about money to scraping together change for coffee. And boys. We yelled about boys. Been done wrong, been done right. For every story I had, she had one to match.

Tipsy, we left the bar for the last few minutes of daylight at 10pm. The streets were full of people. Hipsters. Punk rockers. College kids. Lurking in doorways and sitting on cars. Music poured out into the streets from the bars and their open doors. I had on my high heeled mary janes and was occasionally finding it hard to navigate the sometimes cobblestone sidewalks. We laughed and smiled. People seemed friendlier. We made eye contact with everyone we passed.

The smell of feta and spinach and lemon lured us into the Capitol Hill Grill. Food to soak up the beer. We found a spot on the couches and ordered pomegranate martinis and a hummus plate dotted with feta and olives and roasted red peppers. We sunk into the cushions and started talking with the people across from us. We shared food and tales and music tastes. Everything was velvet there. The curtains, the pillows, the couch, the conversation. Dripped in soft and jeweled toned.

It’s like this. Little by little. That a new city becomes home.

We stayed until bar close. And drank until bar close. And swirled pita in lovely patterns through creamy white dip until the waitress took the plate at last call. The couches were hard to get up from. Almost holding onto me, they were. Wiggling myself away, my legs were like spaghetti when I got to my feet. Hit with warm that slipped through me, I did nothing more than smile and deliberately put one foot in front of the other. Down the stairs with new friends and suddenly outside in the cool night, saying good byes with hugs and promises of getting together for a movie or dinner or window shopping in the next few days. I hailed a cab with the flick of my wrist and fell in. Saying my address and holding on as he did a u-turn and headed downhill to the inky night time water front.

I watched the buildings turn from quaint to glass and steel and back to quaint again as we pulled up in front of my apartment building. All at once I was glad that I was staying here. Glad that the place with the fog didn’t pan out like i thought it would and that this city, for all of my fighting, was becoming my home. Almost in spite of me. Maybe because of me. Either way. It was nice. It still is nice. This morning is me, at the coffee shop. Messy hair, in my hoodie and blue jeans. taking a handful of aspirin with a sip of iced coffee. Smiling and sharing music downloads with the boy a table away.

Perfect how strings tether us together.

hold me steady

Stop everything and head to the nearest music store to purchase Seperation Sunday by The Hold Steady if you meet any of the following criteria:

1] Have ears
2] Have fifteen bucks

This is one of the best CDs to ever be shrink wrapped. It'll make you like music again. It'll make you think the Midwest is dangerous. And maybe even make you believe it is. It could cure disease and maybe even end world hunger if given a chance. Or just make you bob your head to some really good beats.

superhero banana

Again. With the blur. But here’s the thing. I’m happy and that makes it hard to write. Words pour out like so much gasoline when my insides are in knots. But when they aren’t, calm takes me to something else for a while. Painting usually. And I offer up proof. That’s me up above. My first ever self-portrait. Baby blue with pink ribbons blowing on the inside. Pretty like the plastic bag in American Beauty. Plain like the orange you had for lunch.

I first wrote elf-portrait. Then I fixed it. Hee!

I’m in Bandon, Oregon. The vacation is needed. I could feel my Friday afternoon grumpiness fade away as the Space Needle did. It’s on the cost. Right on it. A short walk through some picky beach grass and you are toe to tide with the ocean. I love how moody and dark the northern Pacific is. It has personality unlike it’s southern self that’s all postcards and toddlers in one piece swim suits with ruffles round their hips. It’s not always anything here. Sunny. Cloudy. Perfect. Dreadful. It’s temperamental. Like your sometimes best friend. I’m gonna buy a house here. I have a pocket full of beach rocks. My feet are smooth from the sand.

It’s late and I’m typing away in the almost dark. The girls I’m with are sleeping in the blue glow of the TV. My keyboard is almost silent, mostly quiet. I feel like the naughty girl at camp.

The Honey Bunches of Oats commercial just told me that Honey Bunches of Oats is the cereal I’d make if I made cereal. Not true. If I made cereal, it would be giant Cocoa Puffs, so big that only one would fit in the bowl. You would maybe need a knife. You’d surely need to apply milk in doses. They could double as kick balls in a pinch. Maybe I’ll write them a letter. Maybe not.

Tomorrow we go back and I mentally prepare to be hit with the storm that is a special issue in the media world. I’ll eat ads for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Then have some ads for dessert and if I’m lucky enough to find myself at a happy hour, I’ll drink up a few ads then, too. It’s the most stressful week ever and come the final deadline when there is nothing left to do, you stand in a daze with your two dozen or so co-workers and stare silently into the fluorescent lights hanging over everyone’s cubes. After a few days the cleaning people shake us up and send us home. Ahhh. That’s why we get the big paychecks. Or something like that.

I wanna go into the happy. But I can’t. I can’t because I’m tired and the sound of the ocean is slowly but surely putting me to sleep. And I can’t because I don’t wanna jinx it. I want to keep it wrapped up in the fancy box with the big bow for a little bit longer. Keep it hidden away under my bed for just a couple weeks more. It’s good though. It’s smiles and ocean and fog. And not always needing a map. It’s the best thing to happen in a long long time.

put me in, coach!

I played softball today.

I’ll pause here to give all who know me a second or three to rub their eyes in disbelief, reread the above sentence and then gasp in amazement.

You guys ready to read on?

Good.

Mike said “Come to softball this Sunday.” I was all teary eyed due to a horrible no good very bad tax problem I was having Friday afternoon. He also said, “Bat your eyes, I can’t stand to see them all glassy like that. Man, you’re killing me.” But I digress. An invite to softball at a time of utter weakness is not to be passed up. So I said ok. I got a ride. I wore my hoodie.

I thought I was just going for the fresh air but lo and behold if the team wasn’t short a player. Would they forfeit? Would the game be lost by default? Heck no! I was the stand in Bad News Bear for the morning. We lost by trying, not default! That’s better right?

I played right field, and for those of you who don’t know much about softball, right field is where the weakest link goes. NO ONE hits to right field unless they are either:

a) left handed or
b) a "booger-eatin' moron"

I was pretty much left alone in my right field realm with the exception of two fouls and pop up fly ball headed right at me – which I dropped. But I got a thumbs up from my team mates nonetheless!

We play in a league made up of newspapers. We played against a daily today. Not the Big Daily, the Little One. Makes them somewhat more down to earth and slightly less corporate. They all appeared to be sober and somewhat athletic, however. Unlike our team. Ah, our team. 75% of us were hung over and still had the club stamps on the inside of our wrists. 50% of us had an appropriation of the word “Rock” included on our team jerseys or baseball hats. Rawk. Rox. Rok. You get the picture. Two of us had on chuck taylors. At least three of us hadn’t held a baseball bat in over 10 years. We were a force to be reckoned with … when it came to the one liners anyway.

We lost both games. By at least 15 runs.

The highlights:
• We recruited a 9 year old boy to play on our team. He could throw better than me!
• I got to first base twice!
• Jessie got hit in the cheek with a ball!
• Brian hit a home run!
• We tried to talk the opposing team into forfeiting the second game and going to get hamburgers and beer drinks instead! They declined.

I’m now on a mission to "suck less" at softball. The next few weeks are gonna be all 80s style movie montage of intensive softball training. Think Karate Kid. Think Flashdance. Think me going to Target and buying a baseball glove. Perhaps come next Sunday I’ll be able to hit the ball past the second baseman. Maybe I’ll be able to throw more than 20 feet. Maybe I’ll bring along a Clif bar cuz I got kinda hungry come the second game.

In the immortal words of Coach Morris Buttermaker: “Listen, you didn't come into this life just to sit around on a dugout bench, did ya?”

No sir, I didn't!

and we'll all float on o.k.

I found out this weekend that I’m afraid of floating bridges. I had to talk my way across. It’ll be alright, I said. Thousands of people cross this bridge every single day, I said. Every single day. There was something disconcerting about the bridge being right on the water. Right. On. The. Water. Looking over to where there should just be air and seeing instead, reflected sky. Wavy. Crayola blue. Dozens of cars in front and behind me floating on this slab of concrete and steel. Floating. We were floating! The side rails seemed too small. The bridge was bobbing up and down with the currents. Or maybe that was just my imagination. Either way, the side rails, they seemed too small.

I had to cross it twice. And then twice again when I got lost.

I’m still here.

So is the bridge.

It’s Monday.

Coincidence: I painted a picture of moths circling a light bulb. There was a moth circling my light bulb the very next day.

Test: I’m going to paint a picture of a pigeon superhero friend who does all my laundry and plays with Clover when I’m away. I’ll let you know what happens.

I found out this weekend that Pike Place Market reminds me of an airport. The mood there is temporary. It’s made up of passers by, taking snap shots and sampling cherries. You could go everyday and not see the same straw hat topped hippy or Michigan t-shirt wearing dad of four. They are there for that day only. They are maybe only there for that day. Like ghosts. Like people on a highway. Nameless and somewhat faceless. Strangers bumping into you wanting to buy a box of strawberries to eat back at the hotel.

You don’t have to take off your shoes to get in though.

But you’ll sometimes get rained on.

Now, it’s Tuesday.

Coincidence: I went to the market for lunch today and I was almost, so close, one second away form buying a big bag of cherries. And now, Mike want to share his with me.

Test: Tomorrow I’m going to the market for lunch and will almost, so close, be one second away from buying one of those way cool Chinese good luck cat sculptures – the waving kind. Perhaps come this time tomorrow, I’ll have a shared good luck cat custody agreement all worked out.

Meow.