Haunted Trailer Park- The Geography of Desolation

[I wrote this for an artist who was having a show in Joshua Tree, featuring his paintings about Joshua Tree. These weren't some Georgia O' Keefe nature images, but pictures of abandoned shops, ruined and forgotten cars, and the weathered faces of the desert dwellers. He opted not to use it, and I can see why. The people of Joshua Tree don't need some anti-desert rant knocking them down. The Desert throws enough low blows at them, they don't need some hack running up and kicking them when they're down. Anyhoo, here's the piece. No hard feelings, Jesse]

The Geography of Desolation—all across the desert miniature End Times are taking place, laying waste to random intersections of theoretical latitude and longitude lines—The flash of hope that gave birth to this place has long since died out—the beauty that high-falutin’ East Coast artists flout gets old quick when you have no options other than basic human survival, murder, suicide, or high desert evangelism—
It’s hard to believe that these cars ever ran, that they were once more than just rattlesnake nests and dented tableaus for sloppy graffiti—it’s impossible to accept that these ruins of a single-wide ever housed a person or a family, what with its rusted ribcages and tattered plastics, faux woods and shitty cabinet latches that never worked in the first place—it is utterly unfathomable that anything even close to a good idea was ever birthed here, nurtured, and allowed to blossom from a dream into a reality—the empty storefronts and shattered signage are testaments to that…
What breaks steel can just as well break flesh, break the mind, and it does so, slowly, with great patience and skill—look around, it is no accident that all of the plant life is covered in spines, and the wildlife hates you and will kill you if you insist on pestering it with your presence—this is no place for the soft bellies and tender blinking eyes of our species—we need love and affection to thrive, and there is nothing that is able to be hugged in these parts that will not result is massive injuries and discomfort…
But we have hope, and tenacity, and this thing called perseverance, and we believe we can, if not tame, at the very least co-exist within this harsh environment, but time and time again we loose to the desert—it does not want to live in harmony with us, and we are not worthy adversaries—so it happens, in the dead of night Hope leaves town—in the hell of the afternoon Sun ideas wither and die—the skin wrinkles and cracks, harsh lines Spackled over with the dust of 50’s era atomic tests that are widely remembered but rarely discussed—why do you think you can get 100 acres for $15 around here?—the toll is taken and glances become glares, chemicals become routines, our soft and rounded edges become hard and brittle, we become cacti, all unapproachable and only suitable for black and white photography—the Now is nothing more than a waiting game: Sun comes up, Sun goes down, and in between someone is murdered in a flash of insanity, someone takes themselves out of the game for good with a single shotgun blast to the face, someone drinks themselves to death in a busted-up Airstream, and yet another someone blows themselves up while trying to blow something else up—Time becomes a curse, dragging it all out, but it is also a blessing, albeit a delusional one, because in a Sun-baked mind it is easy to think that if one waits long enough…only if…only if…
And that is what you are left with, a stream of dot, dot, dots stretching off into the Horizon, down a lonely and forgotten highway.

Scotch/ Whisky Review: Kilbeggan

I was all about the Kilbeggan for a year or so until I decided to start paying money for whisky/ scotch.
I went to a scotch tasting at the Pearl Liquor Store cuz it was free booze (hammered, I got. Yes, so much so as to make me speak backwards like Yoda) and the guy that was hosting it was Scottish and wearing a kilt, which gives him cred (it wasn’t a utili-kilt, which would have made him a bag of soggy dicks instead of the Johnny Appleseed of DUIs). I credit his as the guy who introduced me to scotch. My friend and I were also there to get a bottle to kill for the weekend and he steered us away from the cheap CRAP (Rogue whisky which is something I would never consider touching now, and some other shit in a mason jar) and turned us towards us some cheap GOOD stuff, namely, Kilbeggan.
Simply put: it’s good shit. If you like Jameson or Maker’s, it’ll fit the bill. I mean, I haven’t done a side-by-side comparison but as far as I’m concerned it’s the bee’s knees when it comes to affordable but ‘licious whisky. It goes on sale occasionally for around $18, but when it’s not discounted you can grab a bottle for around $20 which is four-ish bones cheaper than Maker’s and about seven less than Jameson (don't quote me on that). Those two are my go-to drinks at a bar cuz, let’s face it, Tony’s or the Speakeasy aren’t gonna carry this little-known Scottish prize. But for home drinking, or if I’m going through a flask stage (Goodfoot= yes, you could get a bazooka into that place… Crown Room= NO! I can barely get my eyebrows into that place since the OLCC cracked down in them. Props to them, though: they took my Krink at the door but returned it five hours later when I left. Though they gave a look like I was lucky to get it back. Still, that’s a pretty cool move), this is where it’s at. Hearty, strong, it’s got a good bite on the pallet but only a gentle nibble on the wallet. It’s what a good whisky is supposed to be.
That said, doing a side-by-side in my den of sadness and failure with my previously reviewed Balvenie, I found it, comparatively speaking, a little watery. It still had the kick of a good whisky and lacked the shitiness of anything shat out by Kentucky (sorry Asseline Netherton, your bourbon leaves me feeling neglected). It didn’t have the brute force and viscosity of a low-level yet formidable whiskey. That may be like comparing apples to abortions but I’m not a pro, so I’m sticking to that until someone sets me straight with a fistful of brass knuckles and a branding iron.
All that said, Kilbeggan is usually on hand at the hovel for guests. But the expensive stuff is out of view in a cabinet somewhere for SPECIAL occasions…like when I have guests… which means there isn’t really any reason for me to hide it I suppose.
Damn, I gotta recalibrate my shit.
OK, new rule: Guests get the first glass of good stuff (usually, if they are a friend, or have a vagina, or eyes, or are wearing clothes, or aren’t, or are cops asking about the domestic violence next door, or have more than zero fingers, or less than zero fingers, or … OK, anyone who comes into my house gets a taste) and after that we tear through the Kilbeggan. That way you get cred for having good whisky in the house AND cred for going outside the norm when you drop down into the lower ranks as the night goes on.
It’s the equivalent of having Rachels on your iPOD (System/ Layers (2003) or Selenography (1999)) for normal times, but when things get green or chemically, you also have the Rachels/ Matmos collab Full on Night (2000) to say, “Yeah, I got good stuff, and I also got the SHIT! And you are a valuable enough guest to get a taste of the real shit… that’s hidden behind the bulk polenta.”
I don't know why I have bulk polenta. I don't know what it is or how to cook it. It just sits there, hiding the good stuff.


Avalanche’s one-sentence review: “Like trying to River Dance in a bathroom stall.” [Ed- I have no idea what this means] [Author- I too am not clear on what this means. I also didn’t know I had an Ed.]

Scotch/ Whisky Review, Volume 1: The Balvenie

I decided to go for some kinda big money booze because my palate is getting picky and fonder of things that I hated in my younger years. I mean, back in the day if you told me I’d like beets and brussels sprouts I would have thrown a lamp at you, but now a days, beets and brussels sprouts are good, cuz they FEEL healthy, and considering my lifestyle, even if it’s not healthy, if it FEELS healthy I’m gonna jump on it.
OK, that doesn’t really apply here. What I’m getting at is that taste buds evolve with age, and as I get older my tastes are growing into new dimensions. Every girl I’ve been involved with since 1998 has been into whisky. And while that beverage has become a more prevalent presence in my life as time goes on, those ladies, much to my own foolishness, keep on fading away leaving me with nothing but this whisky. It’s my own fault, and I own it with tears and loneliness.
A year or three ago there were free tastings in one of our liquor stores (idiotically controlled by the OLCC. Oh how I miss California, where, like an adult, you can buy condoms, chips, a light bulb, two pounds of apples, and a gallon of vodka all in the same store… at 1 in the A.M.). It was a scotch thing, which I knew nothing of, but soon discovered was an alcohol that occasionally tastes a lot like a mouthful of peat moss. Kind of like how beets taste like dirt. Even if you hadn’t actually had the privilege of experiencing a mouthful of dirt, you can imagine ex-ACTLY how it tastes. And with that, if you tasted some hard-core scotch for the first time and said, “WHOA! What the fuck does THAT taste like?!” and someone said “peat moss” you’d be like, “Oh, OK. I can see that.”
So, this is a twelve-year, price-prohibitive (compared to what I usually drink) scotch whisky (which, I'll tell you since I didn't know, the difference twixt scotch and whisky is that scotch is whisky that comes from Scotland I felt dumb when I learned that). Two casks, hand-turned barley or some shit on the floor, old Scottish distiller keeping it old school. Point being, this is a good entry into the world of scotch. I have no vocabulary for this business, so bear with me whilst I drop some layman’s terms on your face.
The smell is of a heady caramel with a slight kerosene burn that people who like whisky have come to love. It’s also more viscous than Makers or Jameson. If you take a small bit and hold it in your mouth you can feel it being thicker than water or the cheaper stuff. I mean, it’s not like motor oil or (so I’ve been told) semen, but it’s definitely thicker than other things I usually drink (like motor oil… or semen… WHOA! Wait…)
The up front taste, right when it hits your tongue is whisky, but when it flows to the back it gets a slight peat moss flair. Not enough to put one off, like some hardcore shit where you’re like “Dude! Who just dropped a shovelful of dirt into my face?!”, but enough to help you swagger some baby steps into the scene.
All in all, I’d say I dig it and it is a perfect entry into scotch for those of you who enjoy whisky but are looking to get deeper into the… brown alcohol scene (hey Amaretto, go fuck yourself). Once I save up enough extra cash I’ll get deeper into the scotch scene and fill you in. But for now, if you’re on the same curious path as I am and have and extra (gulp) fifty bucks to drop, this is a good beginning lesson. Just do as I do and keep some cheap shit on the shelves for when alcoholic friends drop by. Keep this in the cabinet behind the bulk flour, rice, and almonds.

Dr. Avalanche’s off the cuff review: “Tastes like licking an oak tree.”
To be clear, Avalanche has weakly proclaimed that he refuses to be a snob. But tell me, does pretending that Southern Comfort and The Cure’s “Seventeen Seconds” are the pinnacles of existence make you a man of the people; a veritable Bruce Springsteen of the degenerate set? I say it makes you a twat who is slumming with a grimace just to earn street cred.
But he is entitled to his own opinion… even though “Head on the Door” has ALWAYS kicked “Seventeen Seconds” ass and, to quote an amazing person:
Dear Southern Comfort,
You aren’t very comforting!

Food Night, Volume 2: Chicken Burrito

Chicken Burrito Review

Again, trying to be healthier. Tonight was burrito night! A boneless, skinless chicken breast cooked in its own sadness and fear, with a light sprinkling of salt, pepper, and garlic salt.
Throw in a half of a Roma Tomato (I like their firmness but out of season, like now, they aren’t as awesome. Heirlooms are the shit, but when I’m preoccupied with buying $50 bottles of scotch and cans that rattle, I can’t really be expected to drop two bucks on a tomato… I know, fucked up priorities. Get in line to wag a finger), a half of an avocado (lightly salt it, along with any other veggie, about fifteen minutes before eating. This is a really good thing to do if you’re making a pizza. TRUST IT!), a few slivers of yellow bell pepper, a few bits of the cheese of your choice (I prefer the sharp cheddar. I like my cheese to have a bite, like my booze or my wasabi or my women… OK, I have no women, but if I did, a wee nibble here and there would be nice [insert solitary, lonely tear rolling down solitary, lonely cheek] ), some multi-whole grain tortilla that feels like that rubber mat shit you stick under a throw rug to keep it from slipping out from under you, and, my downfall, some sour cream. Not fat free, not low fat—the real deal. Some things you gotta go whole with, like sour cream, and half and half. Have you had fat free half and half? Shit is GROSS! Half and half IS fat. So how it’s made, I have no idea. All I know is that it’ll ruin a cup of coffee quick snap.
Throw that in with HTRK’s Work (Work, Work) album and the new issue if Vice (which, and feel free to argue with me on this, has kinda sucked since Gavin left the fold) and you’ve got yourself a pleasant evening of food, sounds, and reading.
Side note: I did NOT get taken advantage of this evening, unlike pork chop and salad night. My game was slipping and I tried to talk politics and religion with myself, which is ALWAYS a terrible idea on a first date. I realized quickly that this was a no go, a dry night, another night of meeting with the Band of the Hand, so I started dropping the baby-rape jokes. If you’re gonna blow it, do it big and loud.
At least I had some good food. And that HTRK album is really good.

Food Night: Volume 1

I’ve been feeling too fat from beer these days and at some point I developed a serious addiction to frozen pizzas so finally I had a moment of clarity and decided to (temporarily) clean up my act and start eating healthy. Vegetables, small portions of fresh meat, home-cooked shit. Contrary to popular misconception (Suzie Q, lookin’ at YOU!) I can cook some shit up. So here is where I am.
Yes, I’m writing about food I’ve made. These are truly the end times. Anyhoo:
Salad consisted of butter lettuce (washed to avoid e.coli), broccoli (ditto), a half of a Roma tomato (purposely covered in e. coli that I bought in bulk from Winco), one-third of a cucumber (skinned cuz the skin was a little too intense), some mushroom slices (I’d bet that most people who loathe mushrooms because they’re “grown in shit” regularly use catsup… and the things that go down in a catsup factory (Tracy, CA!) makes mere shit seem like a box of See’s Candies, so zip it!), some orange bell pepper slices (not grown in shit or a catsup factory), kidney and garbanzo beans (legume protein!), a sprinkling of gorgonzola (OK, I can never be truly healthy because I am addicted to cheese), and (in the blue Andy and Bax camping shot glass) some balsamic vinegar mixed with a dash of extra virgin (three hymens!) olive oil and two cloves of diced garlic.
Pork chop was salted, peppered, garlic salted, lightly paprikaed on a whim, and cooked in a quarter-sized dollop of butter.
Red wine was on hand (and in liver).I realize that white goes better with pork but I can’t stand the stuff. Deal with it.
Tom Waits’ Closing Time was on the iPOD (CD used for demonstration purposes only). By the time “Martha” rolled around I had finished eating (OK, I was actually done halfway through “I Hope That I Don’t Fall In Love With You” (track #2 for those of you who, for SHAME, don’t know). I eat fast. I was raised in a den of wolves and if I didn’t eat quickly, I didn’t eat).
I retired to the creaky couch/bed that keeps my chiropractor in business. The food was great and I was dropping my A-game on myself, talking about puppy dogs and ice cream cones and shit . The wine flowed, I kept chatting, kept making myself laugh, the music played, and much like Tom Waits said on Nitehawks at the Diner, before I knew it I had taken advantage of myself.
It was a good night.
I called myself up six weeks later and told myself that I had missed my period. Shortly after that phone call I changed my phone number and stopped hanging out in the places that I had met myself (so long, Victory Bar and Star Bar, I’ll miss your heavy-handed pours and hamburgers, respectively).

First Date... again, not really

FIRST DATE:

And she said [leaning into the question with obvious physical interest, fifty minutes into a date that, for all intents and purposes, for all outward appearances, seemed to being going quite well]:
Do you have any consuming hobbies right now? Like, what is the thing that you are just TRYING to own right now?

And he said [in an apathetic panic, the eternal self-doubter, not knowing that things were going well, thinking that masturbating twice a day and covering the city in spraypaint wasn’t something that should be brought up at this early a stage, even though they were his primary, all-consuming hobbies]:
Uh… I’m thinking about learning how to juggle fire? [He had no designs on this until just now, and after blindly pulling it out of his ass, still had no plans on doing any such thing. Fire was hot, blisters sucked. To this very day, he has no idea why he said this.]

And she said, excitedly [she lived in the Alberta District of Portland, Oregon twixt the years of 1999 and 2037. If you know what that means, you know. If not, disregard this bracket and move on]:
Oh, like poi balls? Or batons? I saw an AWESOME fire juggler the other night downtown at Pioneer Square. He was juggling flaming bowling pins! I guess he didn’t have permission cuz the security guys shut him down pretty quick.

Him [knowing he was sinking deeper into dumb]:
Uh, no. I mean, yeah, that’s cool. Totally. But… I’m not talking about juggling THINGS that are on fire. Just, actually, to learn how to juggle fire. You know, like fire, on its own, in its purest form.

Her [one delicately plucked eyebrow arches]:
Uh… but. How? I don’t get it… I mean, you need, like, SOMETHING…. like, as a vector or something? A carrier? Something that is actually on fire?

Him [noticing her eyebrow and, understandably, lack of understanding ,but mind totally blown with the realization that fire needs other things to exist—that, as a highly destructive though sometimes cleansing device, it cannot exist solely on its own. That shit was crazy to him right then and there, but he couldn’t abandon the story line, couldn’t stop running, because if he did he’d be gored to death by his own idiocy. It was like the running of the bulls[hit]] [double brackets, bitches!!!]:
Yeah, I know that it sounds like something in the realm of “not possible”, which is why I feel like it’s a good thing to learn. You know, like, people can juggle things that are on fire. We see it all the time. It’s not easy, but it has been done to death, right? But no one has figured out how to juggle just fire on its own. You know, deal with it on its own terms?

Her [other eyebrow arching with beautiful incredulity, looking bored and finished, the forward lean from the initial question undone to a back lean, slouched against the chair that, as far as he was concerned, was absolutely not designed to encourage people to hang out for long periods of time]:
:

Him:
Yeah, uh… [searching for something right to say, floundering, seeing the stupidity of his words reflecting off of her face, a face that he was realizing he’d never get to kiss, never be in a position to smell that intimate smell of breath expelled though nose unless he upended this tipped canoe of conversational idiocy. On a cellular lever, he knew he couldn’t right this dumb].

And that was that. End of Night Point Tally:
Failure- 10 points,
Possible Future (or even a kiss goodnight)- 0 points

So he went on about phrenology and dowsing and every other thing that would make it impossible for her to want to have anything to do with him on an intimate level. He remembered specifically wincing, internally, when he brought up the subject of chemtrails, something he had no belief in though he found himself railing about their evil.

Dreamscape Number “Sappy Asshole”

In real life, we had only been on one date. It was a standard meet-n-greet. She had a pretty smile, a firm grasp on good music, and a strong sense of independence that appealed to me.
The dream took place on our 4th date. We were comfortable with one another, had a good banter, and shared a handful of quiet conversations close to one another that bordered on confessional. We hadn’t kissed yet, cuz she was a girl who wasn’t prone to first moves, and because I was a pussy.
We went to a small restaurant that had enough style to elevate it from diner status—wood paneled walls, secret booths, soft light, prices that didn’t make it feel like you were getting raped by a psychotic chef.
It was empty, literally. We both knew the spot, and new that it was good, so the usual rule of empty restaurant = botulism and dickish staff didn’t apply. It was just a slow afternoon.
Our waitress was older, 60 or so, and it’s shitty to say, she was competing with the younger, hotter (two were WAY hot) waitresses. She suggested that we sit out on the back patio, twice. The weather wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t anything anyone would want to dine in. Overcast, sporadic drizzle, hovering in the early ‘50s. We declined twice, then She of the Date saw a silent pleading in the lady’s eyes, like she needed a table or else it was all over. Not on a global level, but on a personal level. And really, when it’s all over on a personal level, things may as well be over on a global level. Why we distinguish twixt the two doesn’t seem to make much sense.
Anyhoo, date agreed, waitress said she’d bring us coffees and menus in a second, and we went out… and it was lightly raining. There were about 5 tables on a small, tree-covered deck that had been well maintained. I looked at her. She looked at me. We smirked in unison.
She found the one table that was under the thickest tree, hoping the branches and boughs would protect us. Nonetheless, the table was damp, as were the benches. She stepped up onto one of the benches and turned to me, small navy blue umbrella dangling, all bound and useless, from her left hand.
“Well…” she shrugged.
I snickered and walked up to her. We hadn’t really touched yet, but it was due. Not consciously. The universe just needed it to happen. She was 5’ 1”, so even standing on the bench she wasn’t all that tall. My face came up to chest level on her and I walked up, close, and some unseen hand simultaneously dropped my forehead against her chest as she leaned into me. It was nothing sexual, just physical and comforting. I felt at home for the first time in a long while, temporarily forgetting that I’d no doubt end up temporarily ruining her life within 6 months or so, if I stuck to my unfortunate pattern. It was nice just to have a moment, to feel right, and in touch with someone else.
She leaned all the way into me and I put my arms around her as she came off the bench, me supporting her tiny frame, her arms still at her side, me slowly letting her slide down me. I felt it and mildly panicked, and apparently she felt it too when she got to that point, her knee brushing it.
“You’ve got a bone, huh?”
“Uh… oops?” I blushed
That was when I heard the waitress come out with coffee and beverages, probably putting a bullet into this moment for now. Before I totally let her go and we acknowledged the new arrival she reached up with her perfect lips, her ridiculously white teeth, all up on tippy toes, and whispered into my ear:
“It’s OK, I like it.”
And I melted.

Allow me to clarify

A (paraphrased… thanks Avalanche) quote from ol’ William Burroughs:
I came into this world alone and I’m gonna leave it the same way.

Now, I understand the sentiment, and I love me some Burroughs, but I gotta call bullshit as it isn’t really accurate. Barring the absolute worst case scenario (pregnant mom dies in the forest, lost, alone, awhile giving birth to you) this just isn’t true.

The more accurate version is:
I came into this world covered with the blood and vaginal secretions of a screaming, half-naked, drugged-up woman and I plan on leaving in the same manner.

While presenting certain moral stumbling blocks, at the end of the day, would it not be more fun to take this route?

Cesarean babies, you’re on your own. I’m not gonna get involved with sliced-open abdomens and anesthesia.
Even I have my limits.

8-20/21-2011

The run down: Nap until 9 PM, wake up and drink 2 French presses of coffee by midnight whilst listening to King Midas Sound (“Waiting for You”) and The Walkmen (“Bows and Arrows”) with a little bit of Marc Maron WTFing some poor comedian. At midnight-thirty I pop two Percasets, get picked up and we gather people and supplies (Brendan and his girlfriend/ ice, beer, energy drinks) and get on the freeway by 1:30. It’s a hot summer night so the windows are down which makes it impossible to talk, so I lean my head against the window sill and enjoy the velocity. The satellite radio alternates twixt Bob Seeger and Bing Crosby, which is kind of like freebasing Gummi Bears then skin popping a few grains of Yoo-Hoo to take the edge off. Stop to piss off of a cliff onto the rocks below and take another Perc.

We get to the beach by 3:30, drink some Bud Light with Lime, a shot of tequila that retails for more than my monthly electric bill, times three (Thanks, Mel!). Three of us split up a pot cookie and I chase it with some Bud Light and a fourth Perc. Tonight shall be Float.

We spend a bit of time trying to figure out who would be cast in a live action version of the Blondie comic strip (I vote for Alan Thicke as Blondie, Paul Rudd as Dagwood) until I remember that the already did that in the B & W days and they used to play on Saturdays when I’d be hoping for Abbot and Costello or Laurel and Hardy. Granted, it existing already won’t stop Hollywood, but it stopped us.

Brendan and his lady, who were hammered when we picked them up, pass out face first in the sand pretty quick. The remaining three of us ascertain that the tide is going out so we should be OK sleeping up at the high water mark, barring any early-morning tsunamis.

Our talk peters out and I turn to find that the boy/girl couple that was left has wandered off with their bags to hunker down for three or so hours of sleep. Perpetually that odd man out, due mainly to my own idiocy, I lay my bag down as all of my atoms resonate with the vibrations of the ocean… and the drugs. The feeling of pain killers and pot cookies is unmatched. It doesn’t make for the best social experience, but at times like this, it’s perfect.

I crawl into my bag and look up at the sky, the low fog that lingers perpetually on the coast. I listen to the roar of the ocean as it holds forth over all of this, the occasional screech of an insomniatic seagull. I offer a silent prayer that I don’t get run over and maimed by a dune buggy. The caffeine still has a hold on me and it blends well with the downers and hallucinogens. I fade in and out in twenty minute intervals, not realizing it. Only taking notice as every time I open my eyes for a second there is a little more light gaining on us.

I finally open my eyes feeling about as relaxed as a person can feel without being dead and it’s six in the A.M. early morning joggers are here and there with their dogs. It’s a lonely beach even when it’s busy. In fact, I believe it’s a private beach, so traffic is sparse and luckily no one that has seen us has been such a shit as to say something or alert the authorities.

We all come to slowly, stretching, wiping sand out of moist spots, three of us still kinda high. It’s a great morning, and a great way to wake up. I realize the futility of working as opposed to just relaxing on the beach until the Finger of Death points out the end, but I also know that because I can’t seem to save money, I’ll have to go back to it because I also like to eat.

We finally gather ourselves, brush teeth, get in the car and decide to follow through with a legitimate yet terrible idea to rustle up some food. And then, we find ourselves in the worst place in the world: Cannon Beach. A rich, white tourist enclave that has about as much personality as a disposable plastic cup. We find the one restaurant that isn’t promising a three-hour wait for a table (it’s Sunday, in August), get some surprisingly good food, hit the road, and end up back in the bosom of home by nine A.M.

A new form of pressing deja vu

It’s 4:50-ish in the morning and an uncharacteristic thunder clap rips through the dark. I think, “It’s been sunny all weekend, warm every night. If it starts raining ten minutes before I have to bike to work, I’m calling in sick.”

And sure enough, two minutes later the sky opens up and attacks the skylight in the bathroom. Fifteen seconds later I’m on the phone leaving a message on my boss’s voicemail saying something about an all-night allergy attack that is keeping me home today.

And such is July, 2011, of Portland. The rest of the country is neck-deep in a murderous heat wave, but us sad bastards up here in the Pacific Northwest are dealing with rain well into July.

I would prefer a heat wave.

So I’m sitting by the window listening to the rain, drinking coffee, reading an issue of Vanity Fair that someone left in the basement, and I am suddenly struck with an urge to tell someone something that is incredibly important.

What this thing that I have to say is a mystery to me.

Who it is that I am supposed to tell, I also have no idea.

But it’s pressing in my gut. It is a peculiar and lonely feeling that I haven’t experienced before. It’s like a version of déjà vu, strange an overwhelming, but ultimately nothing more than some chemical misfire that makes for an interesting feeling.

End To End, or Beginning to Beginning. Either Way, There Were Tiny Ears Involved

We watched the sun rise up with a calm fury over the Atlantic ocean—wine, arms around one another, bundled against the cold, full of life and hope. The flames licked up out of the ocean like a mighty Phoenix, gentle waves breaking like timid children on the shores, seagulls coasting lazily on air currents looking for fish or garbage to snatch up and fight over. I leaned over and whispered gently into your unnaturally tiny ear, “I love you.”
When the sun fully cleared the horizon we gathered up our few things, dropped the empty bottle into the proper receptacle, it clanking jarringly into an empty 50-gallon oil drum that had become a garbage can, and we were off to the airport, into our cramped coach seats. We watched a shitty Jennifer Aniston movie with no sound, held hands, napped with heads on shoulders, cursed what they referred to as orange juice.
We raced the sun across the country, one small layover in Texas. I bought an issue of Harpers that I wouldn’t finish for 3 months, you bought some Sour Patch straws, and we arrived on the shores of the might Pacific at a little before dusk.
Another bottle of wine, basking in the warm evening heat, watching the revelers as they volleyed and laughed and walked and ran, tan skin against tan sand, pelicans coasting smoothly with calm determination just inches above the water, our arms around one another again, pleasantly buzzed on sale-priced wine.
The sun dropped lower, lower, and lower, turning the sky and ocean colors that have yet to be reproduced by humans, it sank into finality, waves crashing in white foam and brilliant sounds of hiss and crumble, and you leaned back and whispered into my average-sized ear, “I love you too.”
[6-26-2010]

Dreamscape #0rang3

I was at an elementary school, it was dark, but an early evening winter dark, around 5 or so. A bunch of little kids were leaving for the night. I was standing outside of one of the classroom doors that a pack 7-year olds were exiting. Their teacher followed the last one out and stood in the doorway, dressed in white pajama bottoms with muted stripes, a t-shirt, barefoot, with her hair pulled back. It was Julie Haggerty, the lead in the “Airplane!” movie.
The last child out, a small toe-headed boy with brown corduroy pants stopped right outside the door, turned to her, and held up one small index finger, skin so white and young as to be translucent.
“Why does my finger hurt, Ms. Haggerty?”
She gently took his hand and glanced at the finger. After a second, she let go of his hand, patted him lightly on the head and said, “Don’t worry. It’s probably just a poltergeist.”
She then turned, leaving the child looking horrified, and calmly walked back into the room, the door smoothly closing on well-maintained hydraulics. I noticed that the bottoms of her feet were clean and pure.
After that demonstration of levelheaded, wickedly inventive child torment, I feel head over heels in love with her…
And THAT is when I woke up from a powerful, all-consuming afternoon nap. And I still felt in love with her, a crush of epic proportions carried over from the dream and into the world, leaving me with a sudden sense of loss that took about 3 hours to fully dissipate.

3-19-2010