hold out your hands like this

I’m trying to write this story. About moving. About moving on. And I keep getting stuck on this image. The three of us, hugging and crying and laughing all at once in the pitch dark bitter cold of winter in Minnesota. While I was living it, I knew I’d remember it forever. It was just one of those times where you take a breath and think hard. Concentrate to see all the details. Smell all the smells. I knew I wanted this with me for the road ahead. Remembering how cold my pants legs were against my skin. Remembering the sound of a shattering coffee mug. Remembering what friendship can be and sometimes is. I’ll get it out eventually. For now it keeps kicking around my head and stirring up happy sometimes, sad some other times. The power of friendship is strong.

Stronger than strong.

Jo is home. Back in Minneapplesauce. Apparently, it never gets easier to say good bye. I miss her and her couch and her near endless supply of smarts and quips and pep talks. The girl is a real gem. A real gem, I tell you. We stayed up late yapping and making each other laugh. We drank my weight in pricey booze. We went all over this crazy town. Today I was tired and blurry eyed and happy. Vacation after glow.

Speaking of friends.

Irene sent me a haiku book. Published by a girl who is kinda like me. With glasses. Kinda not like me at all. With barrettes. Inside was tucked a postcard. It said, simply, that my haiku were better. And the best part about that is they probably aren’t any better. Oh, maybe one of my best haiku trump one of her worst haiku. But most likely they’re just the same. Here’s the thing though. The Important Part. I know Irene thinks mine are better, and that’s pretty cool.

I’d write a haiku here but.

I told Mike about how I see people sometimes. How I’ll just see them. Them. Suddenly. At their very worst or their very best. Just a flash. Like two frames in a movie. Then it’s gone and I feel like I have this insight that I shouldn’t have. Like I read a diary or heard a rumor I wish I hadn’t heard. It happened while we were talking. Not of Mike, of a passer by. Even clumsier than this, I asked if it happened to him. The seeing people. The peek. Watching his face to see if my new fall tv show style confession would hit anywhere that made sense to him. To my surprise, he said “yes.” To my surprise, I thought “huh.”

thinking himself sour

he’s like lemonade
upside down on a porch swing
wondering what’s wrong

****

The air has the smell of autumn in it. Just a hint of what’s still far away. I remember last year wanting to hold onto summer and not let it go. This year it’s passing by like a breeze. I’m not trying to save any of it. That sounds wrong. Like the holding on meant it was good, meant I wanted it to last. Really, I wanted it over, just in a different way. A new season in the northwest will wash over me and I’ll come out the other side in some other place, some other time. Some other person. It’s more fluid here, I’m along for the ride. I want to see what’s next. So the smell is nice. I smiled when it made it’s way to my memory and I love that it smells the same as autumn two thousand miles away.

So there is this boy. He’s wickedly clever. With a voice like butterscotch pudding. And in true form, I mostly want to hide under my bed. I mostly want him to go away. I mostly want to kiss him in the hallway. My ridiculousness in the matter has surprised even me. That’s a feat! I rarely surprise myself, mostly because I feel pretty confident that I’m capable of anything. And not in an "I can climb that mountain!" kind of way. It’s more in a "Didn’t mean to spill that wine all over the carpet, Mr. President." kind of way. So yeah. He’s here and I’m here and he makes me feel like the dorky girl in 7th grade who I never really left back in 7th grade. Pigeon toed and messy haired and reading on the bus. Sometimes when I smile, I swear I can still feel the braces.

I start my guitar lessons this week. I bought a hard-shell case and printed out chord progressions for the song i most want to learn. It’s My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. Lovely little tune. I’ve also spent too much time thinking up song lyrics and eyeballing stickers for the now nude case. Which won’t be nude for long. If it sits still, is in arm’s reach and is mine - it’s got stickers on it. Heck, if it meets two outta three, it’s got stickers on it.

What did I say about still being in 7th grade? Yeah.

Jodi comes on Friday for a fun filled fabulous weekend o’ fabulous fun. Our biggest plan stands as getting unbelievably drunk on Saturday afternoon and then taking a ride in this tourist trap called The Duck. Actual residents hate The Duck. Duck drivers will occasionally poke fun of you, on their loud speaker (!!), if you don’t look appropriately happy when they pass by. Duck drivers play loud disco music and lead the dazed and confused tourists through the arm movements to YMCA. Their victims get complimentary duck billed shaped kazoos upon boarding. Mike hates them. They are these WWII water car boat things that can go from land to sea without requiring much more than a driveway. Legend has it one sank a year or two ago. Surely no one was hurt. Surely the kazoos/life preservers kept everyone safe and sound but upon reading the news, Mike smiled, thinking himself Duck free forever. It had sunk! Farewell and good riddance! Until lunch time! Turning his head to see what goofball was blaring YMCA he realized, and I quote: "Apparently, they have more than one." So that’s Saturday. Quack quack.

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.