two things

The front of the card says "Faith is believing that one of two things will happen,"
SHE SAID. "That there will be something solid For you to stand on
-- Or that you will be taught to fly."

My mind catches first on the sound of the words and how she said changes the rhythm changes the sentence. Changes the resonance. How SHE SAID is brilliant because She Said Makes this:

Faith is believing that one of two things will happen.
That there will be something solid for you to stand on
- Or that you will be taught to Fly.

Hallmark card into

This:

Faith is believing that on of two things will happen.
SHE SAID.
That there will be something solid to stand on -
Or that you will be taught to fly.

She said has that little roll of an up down wave with the water breaking on you will be taught to fly. I read it three, fours times listen to the sound of every word hitting the next. I'm a nerd like that.

I go to the meaning that faith is knowing you will be ok. And my mind takes it apart. Beleiving one of two things will happen. Something solid to stand or be taught to fly. Standing or Flying?

Ripped up that way I read a choice in it. Stand or Fly? For two days I pick the card off the bookshelf and read it as a question. Ask, ask, ask myself. Which one would I chose? The Ground or the Sky.

I look up to remember clouds know all the answers.
Like tea leaves and old gypsy women.
and I think, me, I'll take the sky.

Blogiversary

It's my 1st blogiversary. Thanks, y'all, for making this trip around the sun with me. For holding the rope tight while I climbed. To see where this journey started jump into the wayback machine with me and travel to the first post.

All love. All ways. Always.
h

38

Thirty-Eight starts off with my brain scattered like it is every school morning and me a little sad about letting go of 37. Not because the numbers are getting bigger. I'm ok with that and happy, really, that every year I seem to "get it" a little more. I wouldn't be 20 again for anything. Not unless I could take the wisdom of 38 with me, and then I wouldn't really be 20 anyway. I'd just have a younger body.

But I don't want to say goodbye to 37. Hardest, most amazing year of my life. Power year. And I'm terrified that what goes up must come down. And down, I know all about down.

Tuesday morning I drop the kids at school. I have 15 minutes to make the 25 minute drive south to Washington square mall for a 9 a.m. interview. My passengers are daisies dyed bright blues and greens and yellower yellows than they grew themselves, a glass bottle of bath salts,lavender massage oil, birthday balloon that keeps floating into my vision, box of 12 peeps ghosts and a bottle of Odwalla, Mango Tango.

Scott's been there. He's loaded my car up with goodies for every occasion in the last year. Even when I was barely speaking to him, saying only what I needed to parent together, and the gesture just pissed me off more.

Valentines day it was the first picture taken of us, 23 and looking just like kids. Leaning into each other on a picnic table.

38. I'm running late for this interview and what harm will eating one sugary peep do me? But I can't eat just one. I've eaten three by Washington Square.

Ten o'clock my brain remembers something. Jess is picking Josie up from school at 10:30 and I haven't left a car seat. The stroller moms are circled outside of Sears, babies now bored with the workout and tossing cheerios out their strollers.

In any other interview I would be mortified by what I'm about to say: "I need to go back to Portland. Right Now. I just realized I didn't leave a car seat at pre-school for my 3-year-old to be picked up. I'll have to take your number and call you later."

Any other setting it would betray my secret, incompetence.

Here, I'm just one the girls. Points for me. "Oh my god," they say, line up to give me phone numbers. "You go right now. Go, hurry. You can make it by 10:30. We can talk later." Your one of us they smile. We get you.

Half hour is no problem getting back before school lets out. The phone is ringing happy birthdays and I'm chatting it up. Tell my friend I hope this morning is not a sign of the year to come.

But wait, she says, it all good things. Maybe it means you will remember things before it's to late to fix them and you will be surrounded by people who totally understand you.

That's good, I say, I'll take that. Thanks, you just totally shifted my day. Bite the head off another sugar ghost and drive the highway back while we catch up the last few week

Drive and talk, talk and drive until Jess rings in.

Yeah I say, I'm on my way. I'm at exit. Oh my god, Jess. Shit. I'm going south. I'm half way to Salem. Shit. Okay, I'm turning here. Champoeg. Um. I'll call you when I get back to Portland. Shove a whole peeps ghost in my mouth. Sugar.

How do we put a positive spin on that, my friend says, when call her back.

Beautiful day for a drive I say. Summer blue sky, gorgeous fire leaves. I'm having good conversations. Peeps. I suck the sugar of another, half dozen now, and let the marshmallow dissolve in my mouth.

I've eaten nine peeps when I get back to josie's school.




Josie gets out of I Jess's car. Mama she says. We went to the book store and got you a present.

Thanks. I Kiss her forehead. I say I think that was supposed to be your secret.

But. She squeezes her eyes together. We got you a happy birthday present.

Later she says. I don't like you mama. I'm going to the mommy store and getting a new mommy. Next time I'm a born baby I'm picking a different mommy.

Ok, I say. Because what else do you say to that.



Prema and Jess and me, we are cackling at the giant sushi. At how table by table by table everyone in our diner row takes a picture of the platter before they eat.

Scott's at my house on daddy patrol with the girls. Birthday favor.

Hot saki, plum wine, red wine around the table.

You know what I learned today I ask and I don't wait for the answer. I learned the phrase sugar buzz is not just a phrase. If you eat nine sugar peeps you actually feel high. Not hyper. Not giddy. Stoned. From sugar.

That's a lot of sugar.

We talk about another drink somewhere.

I hedge. Saki warm all over my insides.

Um, I say. I have to get up early tomorrow. Pause. And there's a bottle of massage oil.

38.

If the first day of 38, Tuesday, Oct. 23, is a sign of the year to come. I'll take it.

new toothbrush

Six a.m. comes 10, 11 hours into sleep. Same spot my body laid for just a few minutes to rest up then watch Weeds big on the living room wall with him. But I don't move. There was the moment of debate around 10, should I go home. I just take my contacts out of the itch, my eyes. Squint them into the red clock numbers and let my back sink into the soft stretch of of pillow top. My legs and neck and shoulders remember comfort.

My head holds remnants of a dream.

It's this thing I wrote for my teacher's teacher but the dream isn't about kissing or even about writing about kissing. My hands open an envelope from The Journal. A flash writing contest. I'm sure the letter says thanks for entering but ... but I'm not sure because I don't all the way look at the letter. Or if I do I don't remember the outcome.

Squint red into the numbers again, 6:04, and my legs know they should get out of this bed, out of this house before his kids wake up. My body, center of me, knows somethings else. And anyway, they're not his kids, they're my kids. But they're not my kids, they're our kids.

If you hear that same sweet song again will you know why? Anyone who sings a tune so sweet is passing by.

Let my body win. Sink back down in it with him. And, I'm ok. No chest clench panic, the way it answered a couple weeks back when I tried sleeping in my bed. Next to my night stand, clock. My bed. My nightstand. My. Breath. Breathe. I can breathe.

6:43. I say I have to go right now. Fast.

You have 45 minutes he says. Hands down my back.

What! They don't get up until 7:30 here? Are you fucking kidding me? 6:44 at my house, on the nose, everyday.

I put a tooth brush on the sink counter for you, he says.

Tell me all that you know, I'll show you snow and rain.

Then the chest. Chest can't get air.

Quiet my toes to the hardwoods, too late, little girl, pre-dawn chatter from the bedroom in my ears. I smile at my small victory, say they get up at 6:44 here, too.

New stiff bristles over my teeth. Then another small victory, I read two short stories to my two small babies. Kiss noses, cheeks, ears. Tiny mouths.

And, I don't stay for breakfast.

...

more later

*Italicized lyrics from Bird Song, Robert Hunter.

i, MEME, mine

I've read about 10 of these now and I still don't have the first clue what meme means.I wanted to say first fucking clue here because I like the rhythm, but I'm trying to cut back on the gratuitous fucking.

And, you better believe I'm doing my Meme. Kim tagged me and she used to be an editor and even when I'm not writing another word of anything, you better believe I always write when an editor tells me to. Fucking always.

1. I started writing as a distraction in 9th grade so I could look like I was doing something productive in class when I was busy not paying attention. My friend Renee and I wrote three "books" back and forth that year. I'd write a chapter and give the notebook to her. She'd write the next and give it back to me.

2. I kept writing because my letters made people laugh. And because it was the only academic thing I didn't totally suck at. And because I could get a journalism degree without taking any math classes.

3. I would much rather meme than do any of the other things I'm "supposed" to be writing right now. If you give me three months to write something - I still won't start until the night before it's deadline.

4. I write long hand with my right hand - wrong hand - when I'm totally blocked and it opens the flow. sometimes. And, surprise, surprise, the only music I can listen to while writing is the Grateful Dead. Thanks, Jerry! I know it all so well it doesn't distract me.

5. Two-years ago I hadn't published in more than three years and knew I would never be able to write again. I was terrified of taking on 500 word recreation stories for the paper. One year ago I knew I could write newspaper stuff but thought that was my ceiling. Today my entire income is writing and when I say I'm writing a book, it doesn't feel like a lie anymore. Big thanks to all of you for believing in me with such fervor I couldn't help believing in me, too!

I tag Prema, Jess and Tracy. You're it!

scenes from a hood river coffee house

me: I'd like a bowl of the veggie lentil
nosering: Oh, we don't have that.
me: Um, you might want to cross it of the specials baord
nosering: yeah, good idea.
me: ok, i'll have an iced-mocha. soy. and, what are the scones.
norering: that's one's blueberry? i think. I don't know about the other.
me: I don't want to be a bitch, but there are bugs in your pastry case. There are four stuck in the glazed donut.
nosering: yeah. said like this yeaaaahhhhh. goes on working and doesn't remove the donut. doesn't even look at the pastry case. not even a sideways glance.
me: I'll just take the mocha.

day 366

I planned to use this space today to write about 366 days and contrast me, the me who hauled boxes into this place on Oct. 10 2006, to me, the me sitting here knocking at the keys.

However the me sitting here, bare-feet on the hardwoods, couch throw on her shoulders, eyes burning the best kind of tired, doesn't have time. That me has three deadlines to meet in the next two days and would very much like to complete a rewrite for class tomorrow.

Oh, and she's getting so pushy about sleep, that me is, she has forsaken all nighters.

Instead of a long post that me opts to share my favorite new (to me) music website. Check it out, you can listen to almost any album totally free.

soundpedia

It's perfectly legal because the music in not downloadable. Like listening to the radio.

freeeeeeeeeee

I'm free, free,free!lancing!

Friday was officially my LAST day as an Oregonian employee. In 37 years, 11 months and 17 days on this planet in this body, I still have not learned to look before I leap. Don't get me wrong. Preparation is a fantastic idea and I always PLAN to prepare. I am a firm believer in the five Ps - prior preparation prevents piss-poor performance. Is that six?

Before leaving The O - I gave myself 30 days to lay the freelance foundation. Talk to editors, generate stories, create motion. Knew exactly how professional life after the paper would look. I planned to prepare.

Ideas and execution, there's a wide, wide river between those two.

Need an idea, I'm your woman. Execution, not so much. Thing about me, I'm not leaving the left bank of ideas until that river is swelling into serious threat. When the water runs highest and hardest, when the last dry patch of ground is too small to find a foothold, that's when I'm crossing.

Fortunate for me I learned to swim young.

I planned and planned and planned. Just planned. Planned to prepare.

Fortunate for me that the universe actually does respond to ideas. My secret is I've always known The Secret.

In the very last minutes of my very last night at the O, I sent five emails to five editors I've worked with, asking for more work The editors I meant to contact BEFORE giving notice - they are the base of my freelance life. Without them I'm on a freeway offramp with a card board sign.

Green lights in every direction!

And, bonus:
I would LOVE to talk with you about writing opportunities for the SOUTH Weekly. We have just lost a staffer due to the buyout, so I've been searching for another freelancer to work with. You inquiry is perfectly timed.

Fortunate for me The O is intentionally shrinking by attrition and adding stringers to fill the news hole.

Double bonus: I miscalculated my final check, turns out I get paid for all the accrued 2008 vacation hours. Three times what I anticipated.

Just enough to cover the income I didn't generate last month when I was so busy planning to prepare that I didn't actually do anything!

(question, savvy readers: when I'm working from a coffee shop, is the coffee tax deductible?)