music?

Anyone know of any good bluesy, folksy Americana type artists? (J, I'm looking your way...) I need recommendations.

More dog gush

I figured out why I kept missing my bus in the mornings - the morning belly rub hasn't been factored into my AM schedule since it became ritual.

(Yeah, yeah, I know. Total barf etc.)

Scotch-guard me, I'm clumsy

I should have been issued a poncho at my bedroom door today, Sea World-style. Spilled coffee on myself. Cedar drooled on my leg substantially while I ate breakfast. Someone else spilled coffee on me on the bus. Naturally, it's raining. And now, at work, I've upended my water onto my lap. Liquids are very enthusiastic about my person today.

in a staring at the snow sort of mood

Coming back to Alaska ceased to be "coming home" a while ago, but it still holds the comfort and nostalgia of any long-awaited return. My parents' house naturally hasn't changed much (nor have they - a few more grey hairs, a bit closer to retirement) and swallowed me up as it always had. I spent a night in a house on a mountain, walked along the Knik Arm alone and around the greenbelt with my dad, played cribbage, read. The mellow mood - interspersed with grandparental invasions - has been pleasant, and I'm surprising myself with how sad I am to leave. (The Alaska ACLU is looking for an executive director. Obviously, I'm massively underqualified, but the idea of making my home into a more humane place does carry some martyric appeal. Not so much food for thought as a snack to scrutinize.)

I'm such a daddy's girl, and I'm not sure my dad totally catches that. That's okay. We did a little birdwatching on our walk and from our kitchen. The suet attracts any number of fiesty little songbirds, the names of which I've evidently always known.

Saw a snowshoe hare in the woods behind the University - the first I've ever seen in the city. Also, a grazing moose, which, to most Alaskans, is hardly worth mentioning, but it was the first I'd seen since 2004, I think. That's a long time, really.

Natalie loaned me a book, The Delicacy and Strength of Lace, that has renewed my reverence for writing. It is the collected correspondence between Leslie Marmon Silko and James Wright - two phenomenal American writers who wrote each other with such affection and profundity that I had trouble breathing at times. New Year's Resolution: write letters again. Lots of them. Even if no one replies.

One thing James Wright said that resonated deeply: "For man must realize that his capacity for love gives him no right to demand that anyone love him in return. Not anyone. Not even God. I have found that a hard thing to face, but there is something in it that goes beyond pain." I've been turning this over in my mind since I read it. The most difficult thing to do is to simply love, I think, free of obligation or fear or guilt or expectation. Hope of love in return is one thing, but the assumption that it will be reciprocated is an abuse of this amazing capacity (and that's truly the best word, rich with imagery) to/for/of love that we have and share.

Happy New Year. Please write in the coming year knowing that I am doing my damnedest to write back.

wait...

Not getting a few weeks of vacation at the end of every quarter is going to hurt. I'm already depressed about this. (Some post-trip let-down and illness doesn't really make that any better, but still.)

Alaska in 2 days.

welcome to Seattle, where the sun don't shine

My camera has officially bitten it. Five years is a long stretch for a digital camera, so while I'm sad to see it go, I'm not exactly shocked. So long Dinosaur Battleship! (Named for its age and durability by Trish, myself and most likely a beer or two.) It couldn't have picked a worse weekend to croak. Ample dog and girl photo ops in a pretty, pretty city. Seattle intimidates me less every time I go there. It's still massive and the lay of the land is still kind of a mystery (where the hell is Ravenna and why can't I seem to find it again?) Hitting up the Sound sucker-punched me - I know I always miss the ocean, but I didn't know I missed it so constantly and with such a bottom-of-my-stomach urgency. For all of Portland's charms, the lack of ocean and mountains (no, MOUNTAINS) really does set me into a lull.

So yes. I had a marvelous weekend. Cedar did too - causing a ruckus is one of her favorite activities.

Pup pics

By and large, she's a good dog. Excitable, energetic and eager to please. I need to be more of a hard-ass to get her to take me seriously. That's not easy for me, particularly when I feel guilty about leaving her alone for stretches of time. Still, though, she's mostly housebroken and extremely loving. Her name is Cedar.

There are projects, side projects, ongoing projects and new projects. The evolution from complete boredom to complete bemusement ("where did the last two weeks go?") is nigh upon me, and I wonder how long my new rut will suit me.

Thoughts of leaving the country again arise. Thoughts of law school persist. On top of all of it is the knowledge that I will likely live out most of my days on the West Coast, but I'll surely disappoint myself if "most" turns out to mean "all."

That having been said, I'm starting the long, slow process of entrenching myself somewhere new. With the projects. With the responsibilities and obligations. This is not the life I imagined ten years ago, or even ten months ago. But ten days ago, today would have been believable, perhaps an improvement.

Adulthood may crash in my lap sooner than I thought. Ick.

In less purple prose: I'm volunteering, making my house a home, embarking on new kitchen and garden projects, wrangling furniture for our half-furnished house, learning to knit, and collecting the supplies and wits and funds necessary to get the dog I've been raving about for months. My baby brother visits for Thanksgiving. I go back to Alaska for Christmas for the first time in three years. In the back of my throat and the well of my stomach, something shifts every time I think about it all.

Realistically, pictures of the house will come when pictures of the dog do.

The house front is moving more slowly than I'd like -- it's looking like we won't move in until next weekend at the earliest. Frustrating. I'm sick of making excuses as to why I'm not moved in already and I'm growing weary of the long-term houseguest situation.

In less whiny news, I get to see the New Pornographers tonight! I've had my ticket for about three months now -- can we say mailing list? The full line-up will evidently be playing -- Neko and Dan inclusive. Needless to say, I'll be at the front of the crush, dancing and screaming.

Fixed up my bike a little today. New stem and seat post -- the thing actually fits me now. The operation took a lot longer than I'd have liked. To the tune of an hour and a half longer, but I'm not terribly patient. Or adept with a wrench apparently. At any rate, it's taller and road-ready, if a bit in need of some tweaking.

Cafes in SE Portland have been conspiring to play music that will maximize my moodiness. The sudden cloudy turn has made it even more clear that not only does everything in this town (and the world?) revolve around me, but the whole operation is trying to make me grumpy. Not possible when a sweet, long-awaited concert is on the horizon, I'm afraid.

Last tidbit: a photo of mine has been published. See!

various.

The mistranslations in some of these documents I review at work can be pretty thought-provoking. Usually, the intent is preserved, but the wording is at a strange nexus of clarity and cumbersome-ness. For example, a mechanical device won't be quieter or reduce noise, it will endeavor to "improve silence." The idea of silence as a sliding scale, something that can be optimized, appeals to me in a weird way.

In more exciting, less navel-gazerly news, my roomies and I found a house and we'll hopefully move in this weekend. It's in southeast, right around the corner (literally -- less than a block) from where I'm staying now. My commute to work remains 10-15 minutes. The bars I like (and the E-room) are still comfortably close. Ahhh. Damn, it feels good to be a resident.

It occurred to me today that this is the first September 11th that has fallen on a Tuesday since the towers fell. This is not insignificant, at least not to me. That Tuesday, I worked at the Anchorage Daily News after school and saw a frenzied newsroom that I can't forget. That Tuesday was one of many tuesdays of my junior year of high school -- Tuesday was my favorite day of my favorite year of an otherwise middling-to-shitty episode of life.

This Tuesday is one of what will be one of many like others. I'm working my way toward a schedule again, and Tuesdays herald staff meetings instead of the best block schedule of the week (periods 1,2,4 and 5 -- human anatomy, pottery, drawing and AP European history -- sad that the only reason I remember this is because of the attacks.) At any rate, watching the protesters in Pioneer Courthouse Square while munching my leftovers got me thinking about watching that terrifying footage over and over in school, until I asked my history teacher to let me leave.

The catering gig (50 people, most of them trashed by 9:00) went off well. I've never poached so many goddamn pears in my life.

My job is difficult to get the hang of, since there are so many nit-picky details involved in filing patent applications. Who knew? Coworkers are super-cool, though, and I love my daily bike commute. I made a friend on the path on friday; we talked about shoes.

I missed Musicfest NW largely out of my own flakiness. Rilo Kiley is coming back soon, though, and Mirah plays on Wednesday (I think) so I'm happy to save my dough. Also: NEW PORNOGRAPHERS! SEPTEMBER 16! Somebody had better join me on this one.

Today is a lovely sunny day.

Posting will continue to be light until the weather turns. It's not that nothing is going on, rather, my interest in this blogamadoo wanes for the moment. work email can be given on request. It gets checked every other moment from 8:30-4:30 Mon-Fri. Sadly. Mrrh.

erica, road warrior princess

Well, I logged 2,000 miles in five days. My ass has long since ceased its complaints and has settled into acceptance that it may never be the same following altogether too many hours in a Chevy Cobalt (perhaps the most uncomfortable economy car on the market.) Physical complaints aside, the trip was fantastic. Baby bro and I created a new game: whenever one of us does or says something that reminds the other of one of our parents, the other sibling doles out a point in either the "Dad" or the "Mom" column. Being overly polite or diplomatic in a situation that hardly calls for any kind of decorum? Point in the mom column. Cheapskatery of any kind? Dad column. That one goofy look? Mom. That other goofy look? Dad. There are no winners and losers, only the constant reminder of kin.

It seems that the bitchy older sister versus bratty younger brother dynamic gracefully retired in favor of a steady stream of dry banter, NPR and REI fandom and tentative airing of anxieties. The bro and I have plenty in common and enjoy each other's company -- in typing that, I'm struck simultaneously by "how did THAT happen?" and "fucking FINALLY." We even wear the same pants. Different colors, but 32x32, man. The size of sibling bonding.

Montana gave me tons of hiking opportunities, although I didn't have my camera for the prettiest two forays. A couple nice snaps to tide y'all over.

Near Butte




Skeptical Brotherface, west of Helena

HA! I win Portland!

Halfway, anyway. I now work as an office assistant in a patent and trademark law firm. Now all I need is a home, and the rest will fall into line. Plus, you guys don't have to endure my unemployed whining! The employed whining will be much more...financially solvent.

Leaving on monday to road trip the bro to Montana State. Pictures upon return.

Like most of the spiritually bereft, I take my occasional off-putting, mystic dreams rather seriously. This perhaps misguided approach to the intangible is neither consistent nor rewarding, but it is how I roll. Last night, my grandfather took my on a guided tour of my life at present. He was beatific, shrouded in a white glow that extended to everything he touched. This got a little bit irritating, but I was awfully intrigued by his demeanor – that him-but-not-quite-him thing that dream people do – so I didn’t mention it. He was not encouraging, not judgmental, not bossy; in fact, Papa eschewed the entire gamut of support and advice I’ve so far received from Baby Boomers and Greatest Generationals. That I’m very, very lost only heartened him. He got angry, though, which I’ve rarely (if ever) seen; when I turned inward to self-pity, he called me out. Not for the reasons I tend to scorn self-pity, either, but because in doing so I essentially disregarded the love and care that had brought me to the present moment. To feel sorry for Poor Me was to ignore all of the people I am so very, very lucky to have near me.

My family is more or less intact, functional and okay with the homo factor. Adam and I talk as much as our personalities and timetables will allow. Unforgettable people in every region of this country and in several far-flung lands drop lines to say hey. Sometimes it frustrates me when folks don’t call me back or when the blog appears for want of readers. That’s immaterial, though. Short term. I am incredibly lucky. One, even one as spiritually bereft as I, could say blessed. Thank y'all. It's a terribly impersonal forum, but I feel like writing is the most accurate and articulte way to get these thoughts out and the blog is, well, very convenient. Had I the will to subject you to it, I'd give an alphabetical run-down of why everyone in my life is awesome. (A is for Areli, whose love for Narbles and NPR is forever and inspiration... and so on.) I'll put it all in my will. Read it at the wake in an Erica Voice.

My mother sent me a book in the mail, saying it reminded her of me. For all the awkard nuances of our relationship, my mother and I can be on the same wavelength from time to time. My jury’s still out as to whether or not getting this book – Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert – in the mail with a maternal note constitutes a moment of communion or of awkwardness. So far, I could take or leave the book, but in places the tone of the thing sounds an awful lot like my Perfect World columns. It’s a syntax thing; it must be. The upshot: my mother may or may not think I’m having a spiritual crisis – not that I’m affirming or denying that, but still – and may or may not think that I should write a book about it and market it to the Oprah’s Book Club set. Does anybody else’s mother do this? Does anybody else over-analyze their parents and themselves like this? I need to get out more.

The Bicycle Thief is not the greatest movie to watch while unemployed, although I don’t have kids or any Italian whatsoever, so there’s still a remove. (Shit, I think my bike's unlocked, actually.) Reading Cormac McCarthy while pining for the dramatic landscapes of my own Heimat is likewise a bit of a downer, but in that artsy sort of way. Would that I could write like that, or even half as well.

Spent a good chunk of today with power tools and gardening materials. Making myself useful to my hostess today involved making breakfast (pancakes), using power tools (skill saw), breaking up garden brush (rosemary and an old Xmas tree), and sweeping. Windows are next.

Tomorrow: LSAT studying, waiting by the phone for news of houses and jobs, calling family in Helena so as not to totally gate-crash. Email both sets of grandparents, cousin. Take Multnomah country food handler’s test. Buy a day planner. This shit’s getting ridiculous.
Tuesday: Tri-met job fair and Q center volunteer meeting. Call parents? More LSAT. Buy a day planner for reals. Windows?

blogging is self-indulgent and that's why i do it.

-INTENSE WHINING ALERT-

Job searching sucks. House hunting sucks. I'm sick of being blown off.

On the plus side, the biking lifestyle is already making some changes to the shape of my calves.

Mother keeps hinting that I could go back to Anchorage. That feels like quitting, and be damned if I'm going to quit one more Big Thing because the going got tough.

Adam arrives on the 17th, and we leave for Montana early on the 20th. I'm looking forward to getting out of my pocket of SE for a little bit and spending some time with Boy.

Bad news from a good friend. Bought smokes, couldn't bring myself to finish a one.

House-sit ends today. I'm losing the beautiful garden and house I'd had all to myself.

Schmoozed with two Mercury writers and a couple of bloggers last night. Not especially fun, although I think I faked it well. Free drinks and food from L helped. Just seeing L helped.

And I am incredibly depressed. The days are long and full of nothing, and I'm too impatient to enjoy them. Wondering vaguely why I ever leave comfortable places.

Job searching and house hunting are tedious enough -- I'll spare you.

Fun things I've done lately have included making tons of salsa, entertaining various folks at the house-sit, readingreadingreading, hanging with my aunt (in town for a few), biking my calves into submission, frisbee, First Thursday (holy free champagne, Batman! Plus, floral camo manpris. I didn't know what to think), and the glory that is netflix.

M and I had an IKEA adventure today. My IKEA experience is limited, but I clearly recall a visit to the Phoenix location last Christmas wherein I lost my aunt and mother somewhere in the linens and felt very much like crying to an employee. Place is intimidating. For all that, it was fairly tame -- crowded, but tame. M introduced me to Bilar, which is an amazing marshmallow candy bit that tastes like condensed childhood. Not in a creepy way.

Off to transcribe interviews and wash windows. I want a real job.

SWL ISO job

I hope my present unemployment (no word from the temp agency, which is irritating beyond measure) doesn't start to reflect poorly on these applications for houses I'm trying to fill out. New Seasons is hiring. Hell, I could telemarket. Another damn tyranny of options situation over here.

The move was more or less smooth, the last nights in Eugene festive. I'm excited to settle into independence up here, but getting there is not exactly going to be a breeze. Unemployment and homelessness are still uncomfortable and unresolved.

Although I suppose I could be a little easier on myself considering I've been here for all of two days now.

Also: read the latest Harry Potter. My only comment until anti-spoiler fury dies down: favorite passage is on page 644. You'll know which one I mean. I giggled for about ten minutes picturing Maggie Smith in there.

To the left, to the left

Slowly moving my life into boxes, which is either a joyous or depressing project. There's so much to miss in Eugene. That felt strange to write, but I'm glad to get out of town before I've worked it dry of all possible affection. Eugene's not used up, and I know I'll be back.

spam, mole, ice cream...

Possibly the best spam sender/subject combination in a while.

From: "Mai Colon"
Subj: The former paints a more vivid picture of the tank top than the latterporn

Backing up to the weekend, the mole endeavor was a success. Jenaya and I concocted some bitchin' bread pudding as well, and Ryan taught me how to make tortillas. I haven't made too many dishes that complex and had them enjoyed by so much good company. Makes me ever more sad to leave Eugene.

As did the whiskey and ice cream evening. We made about half of the sundae menu sound dirty (Kathy's Pink Surprise and the Gold Nugget were favorites. The Pearl Street joint actually has something called a Fudge-ana, which I'm not sure can be pronounced with maturity.) Meg has a few pictures, including one of our birthday "twins," John and Trish. (They're not related and it wasn't anyone's birthday. I can't go in that place without a drink or three in me, though. Too much creepy wholesomeness. I expect evil ringmasters to start pushing over-sized lollipops at me.)

Getting my OLCC on tomorrow. Woo.