EE vwuala! More postcards... each day an adventure, each day a reason to rummage across the yard, past the bunny-nibbled hollyhocks, the wild roses trimmed, the rocks falling, barrier bushes so tall I couldn't trim them adequately on a forty-foot ladder with a chainsaw-esque power-trimmer that had me convinced I was twenty seconds away from trimming the nose off my own face in a bad, bleedy sort of way. The postcards on the other side of the road-that-kills, the-road-that-also-sports all kinds of buff bicyclists to make me feel like a fat, oafish hick, either that or pitbulls that attack in the night if one (not me anymore) likes late exercise. All those postcards waiting for just a few more days, not much longer, before they end. E finito, with a few more days.

I have to admit, I had fallen behind the project for an awesome and painful five days, but today I sent the catch-up with that tremendous sigh of relief that comes from being a participant, and the pleasure of knowing that what I put out is = or > what comes back. There's something very perfect in that way feeling connected to other people has of being perfect.

Day 16, Postcard 13



Day 17, Postcard 14



Day 18, Postcard 15



*

Thanks to the emails unrelated but that don't get photogenically recognized.

*

I had my interview and it didn't go so horribly that I am not hopeful of a callback in the next two weeks.

Despite it going well (when I mentioned how cold it actually was in the interview room - due to my nemesis, air-conditioning, they all laughed [comedic timing] and then the HR lady actually stood up, collected a green fuzzy blanket from off a coat hook and wrapped it around my shoulders, saying I was the special one of the group. She didn't object when I said, Oh my, Thank you! Perhaps I'll just put it here in my lap, but), they did manage to hit my panic button by asking me if I was "done with all the traveling," which I guess is a genuine question after looking at the sporadic quality of my resume. I hope I replied honestly when I said that I wasn't "done with traveling or exploring the world," but done with "moving to new places." I also hope that the gods don't smite me for having mentioned getting a new puppy as a means of proving my dedication to location.

I don't know why, I really think it's a character flaw at this point, but I question why I seem to interpret "done with all the traveling" as having decided to go ahead and lie down to die.

Seems a might dramatic.

But really, that's how I feel when someone asks that question, and when they add the caveat of a 8-5 regular job, I really just feel like someone's asked me to slit my own throat while smiling about the gurgling upshot. Probably it's not all as wretched as that, but it wouldn't be exaggerating to say that I nearly get hives when someone suggests that I might be situated (or stuck) where I am for longer than six-ish months without some radical change of schedule. For some people it's flying on airplanes, for others it's meeting a snake or spider; for me, it's regularity.

Probably this is something I need to deal with.

The funny thing is that I don't interpret my friends' or relatives' lives in the same fashion. If they get a good job, I'm all balleyhoo, whether it involves nesting in one place or not. But as for me, I just think that way: staying still after six months equals brain-meltdown for this particular brain, thus death. Certainly many people somehow manage to stay smart after months in one place, perhaps by reading excellent books or connecting with wily peoples, but that's not how I'm used to adapting. I get the intellectual cooties by static living. Strange thing is: I've rather been committed to school in one spot for three years now, but because of the continuous shift in classes and related available jobs, it doesn't seem to register in the same way.

As I said, probably this is something I need to deal with.

But the job I applied for: very cool people, good vibrant souls immediately visible, and a job challenging enough that I could keep learning. The gig wouldn't be about something I automatically know, so I'd be stressed out and ornery for at least two months, and after that, still potentially challenged. I guess that sounds like a pretty good deal, despite the 8-5 M-Fr. Ug, 8-5.

For me though, it's still a very real question whether, after all that, I would still have the time to write, and write well. But the lords know, I'm not able to make use of the open time I have now, due to that eternal fiscal panic. Transition is less a friend to creativity than stasis, I think. Maybe. And Maybe.

Maybe it could work. Maybe the interviewers think so as well.

Herald says, 'Hey lady, all I know is this silky fluff doesn't come for free. I need the chow, and I need it now. Plus I'll grin at you and nibble lovingly on your paws.'

Herald, baby, you're such a Task-Master...!

Labels: postcard project

This shit is just sad. Herald disapproves (not that La China saved Romulus, but that La China's upsetted by all that attention, not eating, and that the human baby had to be saved in the first place). Herald thinks everybody needs their ears fluffed.

But... Herald, ah Herald.... Monsieur H spent today, while I was innocently folding laundry for our sustenance, chewing on an old 1996 Russian-voyage photo album of mine. We still think Herald is cute, but we're going about some serious doggy-proofing tomorrow.

And Biden. Hmmm. Obama, you have already won my greatbig muscular strutting heart. Just don't ever, ever cheat on Michelle or turn into a mindless wimpoli, and we'll be cool. (I think I was secretly hoping Clinton would backpedal enough to earn my heart and the vp nom as well. She stuffed both her feet in "it" during the primaries, but I still sorta admired her.) [either that, or some renegade Che figure, but I understand the older white guy obligation, and Biden's pretty cool as far as that goes.]

McCain, I hex you. I hex you bad.

I finally figured out how to get the pics off my phone - they'd grown so numerous, or at least too weighty in KB to store any longer; I haven't been able to take new phone pics for a few months now. It turned out to be remarkably easy to get them off... go figure that it would take me three years to figure it out... and here are some of my favorites

(I know there are too many pics of myself, but the good digi-camera takes crappy pics of me - exacting a look greater/equal to my actual weight - whereas the phone camera takes flattering pics for when I need to feel flattered, which is frequent when it comes to appearance. Probably the quality difference between the two cameras comes from the bright flash and the way the phone lens really bends things? Anyhow, if you think I'm self-interested by posting three phone self-pics [as my sister will, and will inevitably comment on, regardless of whether she's in Scotland with a crashed hard-drive, little ability/time to check the net, etc], then all I can say is I'm really glad I didn't post the other fifty):

















*

Also, I got more postcards. It's like getting presents every day, which as you might understand, I really enjoy. Not just enjoy, it makes me gloat and bask. It makes me grin and wiggle. It makes me want to rub it in to others who aren't so lucky. It makes me a better, gentler, kinder person with joy in my heart and speeding, healthy chemicals + neurons in my brain vicinity.

Day 13, Postcard 10



Day 13, Postcard 11



Day 14, Postcard 12



*

Peace to you all, and cross your fingers - all 21 of them - for me because I got a job interview. It's not for teaching, but it could be really good. It happens next weeks sometime, so I'll be biting my nails 'til then.

Oh, and the plums are nearly ripe, I ate an apple off our tree, and the blackberries along the ocean are sweet as can be.

Labels: postcard project

I've been having a time being a parent. I find myself to be: lenient but firm. I find Herald to be: mellow but still a puppy.



No, it's fascinating, the process of getting to know a creature you've accepted without knowing into your home and family. I chose to adopt Herald initially because he's a mix with the breed I wanted a mix of. That is, I love Newfies - enormous salvatory water dogs with webbing between their toes and the ocean in their hearts. They're known for being enormous, loyal and relaxed with humor in addition, and that was the type of dog I wanted. But Newfies are so damn large - getting up to 200lbs for full-grown males - so I compromised by keeping an eye out for a half-breed. You know, only 115lbs at most.

But I did not expect to find this Newfie-mix anytime soon, nor did I particularly need to as I have no real job. Yet, I was still looking and when I saw Herald's ad, I thought I'd go see if there was That Click.


Herald is, as it goes, a charmer. He charmed me immediately with his insta-social ways and waggling and head-over-heels-falling-on-his-own-head way. There was That Click. That Click clicked quickly, maybe as soon as the wiggling mass piddled on my shoes.

Observing this little stranger, he tends to adore anyone potentially although he has a particular fondness for children and women. He wuffs at unknown men, and barks at any two unknown men walking together, as I found out at the park. I was walking him at Padden with SP and she too noted, "He loooooves the ladies, but just can't get enough attention from them. Just like his mom." Then she saw my face and said, "I meant the first part, not the second."

[People have been saying hilarious things to me lately. Yesterday when I told db that I love the kitty she's going to adopt from my sis/brolaw, but that I couldn't risk taking her to the house-with-that-road, db told me not to worry, that I could have as many "conjugal visits" as I wanted. When she noticed my strange facial reaction to this, she turned completely red and started stuttering. It was perfect.

And Sunday night, a visiting friend of the family asked me how the kites were powered for kite-boarding. Without skipping a beat, I said "wind" then kept talking only to stop, feeling pleased somewhat when I noticed my Granny smirking that delicious amused smile of hers. Sometimes it's nice to have one's cleverness noticed. (I'm laughing here).]

But I find myself waking at night to look at Herald, loving the way he has of lying on his back, loving his presence in my life, helping me to find something beyond loans and pride and family to get gumption for.

He's not instant in giving his love, although he's instant in giving affection. So I love that he now runs to me when we're exploring and is excited to find me again. Yesterday, I went to the movies after work, and when I came home late at night to find him in my kitchen, there was a reunion of epic length and fervor. I feel he's starting to know me, just as I am starting to know him, but I respect the fact that nothing's yet welded, neither one of us assuming our match without the time it takes to make it.

Herald is a wise soul ultimately, and he shoves his nose under water at the beach to search for the stick that happens to be one foot in front of him, floating on top of the water, supposedly obvious.


JW has agreed to be Herald's doggodmother. That's a good sign.

*

on the note of my daily life's intractable strangeness & indecipherability... incidence of language overlap with another's to two old bad pieces in one post: riding horse, saddle, rocks in hand, no language, hidden anger, bow legs, everything let go of, disemboweled eyes, dying horses. incidence of overlap with memory, not anyone else's: name, four goodbyes, broken glass, speaking and saying nothing, sand, hard ass. More to the point: nothing of copy - that's not nor's ever been the thought, point or pointless, however inarticulate the thought or point/less is anyway, plus it's much better-written than anything of that particular pastness, but rather startling.
weird. weirdish. yes, it was startling, upsetting, the first time I've turned around that way at first glance, so I went back to double check i wasn't, as i am prone to do, only, only imagining.

you know... when you get sick of experiencing things nobody else does so did it really happen, imagining incidents of coincidence or respondence or correspondence? so you start checking things, you continue doubting, cutting, cutting out (mostly), you later cry out of mixed frustrations, then end up calming down and firmly stating, as if for an unknown record because you're used to deciding you're very wrong: it doesn't matter, whatever, just move keep moving, testing, braving and then deciding to say something but then it sounds like an accusation, but that wasn't the point?

but it's okay to say 'weird', isn't it? it's true, no matter what the truth is, right?

so why did I turn beet red and decide right there, then, that this is it, no more, no no no no, no no, bad idea? that I won't go back to being emotionally vulnerable by myself in front of x,y,z? that I won't go back? that i won't risk being bent? that i'm really stupid for going back? that I won't break the rules I have built like a brick umbrella above me? that i want my life to plane, to skid up, to enlighten itself with more than this, this strange backwards? and who besides me cares anyway when it comes right down to reality and not just abstract self-buttering?

do you sometimes just wish people would acknowledge that they're here, then feel guilty for your desire to not be always wrong about that? do you sometimes just wish to forget so as to better meet what's here? i'm so full of apologies, nettles in air without swans - past present likely future: one day maybe I'll meet somebody's hopes not expectations.

so, either: (a) life has weird overlap, overlapping weirdness, and so do minds in motion, or (b) someone is lying. frankly, i vote for (a), but don't care. nobody lies anymore; it's so gauche. anyhow, i'm too old for this.

see that... see it? i was lying, always about caring. lying for myself though, because i enjoy it. i do care, but there's too much distance between experience. too much left in the mind. too many things said, left unsaid, and neither one nor the other seemed ever to help. i care, but i can't seem to get much further than one question, puppies, and the desire to deliver plums to everyone I once or still or hope to love(d), but from here to here, delivering them by hand, mine, palm to table plums in a bucket, for everyone regardless with nothing taking away from it, ever, for the simplicity of plums, yellow, dribbling, in their yellowness.

the second time is more unexpected than any first.

last night i dreamt i painted semi-invisible flowers in the air with my mind, then squirted secondary colors upon their leaves with a pipette so that when people walked through them, they'd reflect the outside iridescent and fluid. Colors moving within colors on sunflowers and marigolds. Lots of yellow being given.

*

But then again, two good books I'm working on (with all the others): The Whole Story & Other Stories by Ali Smith and Summer in Baden-Baden by Tsypkin. So far, I like both of them much. But more than liking both of them much, I like the fact that they were recommended to me. For me. Especially with me in mind. One of the books was even lent to me.

I like it when this happens; more people should recommend books specifically for others and then receive feedback as to whether they chose well, with that right knowledge of the other. And then the question of whether I could recommend back. I recently pegged the likes of a friend and it was pleasurable to have chosen well. As for the two who gave books/titles to me, I know I could recommend to the former, but am clueless when it comes to the latter. Interesting.

*

I've also started thinking about what it might mean to make my own life here, in B-ville. The fact that I need to find a way to make new friends.

Reflecting on said issue at hand, I have to admit do best when I have about 50-100 friends or acquaintances to take into account. That's not an exaggeration; it was so easy in Chicago. To create striations and difference. Not just one friend of one type, but many friends of many types (safer that way, as well as exquisite) - those to go to readings with, those to dance with, those to drink with, those to discuss with, those to admire, those to chitchat with, those to adore, those to find books with, those to intensify with, those to challenge you, those you dream of, those you challenge, those you want to grow, those who irritate you, those you accept, those you know the names of, those you know are friends of, those you know about lives of, those you pet the dogs of, those who scare you, those you don't really know but share important moments with, those who you notice enjoying similar things with, those who are so different you can't figure out how you communicate with, those you look at from a distance and wish for closeness with, those you forget and then enjoy again, those who know more about you than you wish they know, those whose teeth you admire, those who seem strange and unknowable, those who shine nearby so much you can't see them, those who are dull and boring but startle you, etc.

So yeah. I would like to find many people to flow in and out of, to feel content with, and for awhile now, I've simply been enjoying my family and the four or so friends I still have in these parts. But I can't depend on those I already have to always spend time with, so now I am faced with the eternal moving question of how to meet new people in this town.

The recent thought I've had is that I should throw a meeting party wherein everyone brings someone they think would enjoy knowing me, and those people would bring people they don't-think-but-suspect might also enjoy knowing those at the party, and those people bring people they can't possibly think or suspect will like the company but they might as well give it a shot because it's possible.

It's a thought. I have a great patio that hasn't had its own party yet, so maybe I should make it more than a thought.

But that's not it. What should I join? What activities should I do? How can I adjust my fates?

*

Plus I've started thinking about sending stuff out for publish-like. I've begun a card catalog of journals just to keep my nose up, and JW recommended JJ's blog to help with the process. I kinda want to shout "I know this lady(!)... and like her(!)... and I admire her writing(!)..." from the nearest building, which, sorry JJ, wouldn't be that tall around these parts. She's awesome, and her blog's very funny.

The problem for me with publishing, or at least one of them, is that I only have one piece I still like. Maybe two. All the rest just seem like potential, or discard. And this is chronic for me. How to deal with that one? Write more, maybe?

*

Time to go, maybe go writing, you know. Either that, or go admire Herald, who is sleeping upside down against the fireplace with his five toys pulled up close.

Postcard 5, Day 8



Postcard 6, Day 10



Postcard 7, Day 12



Postcard 8, Day 12



Postcard 9, Day 12

Labels: postcard project

This is Herald (a.k.a. Harold, ie Harold Matthews and/or Harold & Maude). He's the biggest commitment I've made in my life. I'm half-panicking about it, half in-love.


p.s. I discovered yesterday that Herald is indeed a swimmer. At 10 weeks, he already went paddling, and not just wading but paddling.

p.p.s. Please write to let me know I'm not a dumbass for getting a dog when I don't yet have a job. & that I'm not a dumbass for getting a dog that might be 115lbs full-grown. & that I'm not a dumbass for thinking I'm ready to take care of a little creature.

p.p.p.s. Isn't he adorable?

Labels: postcard project

So, in a way this is my little ode to jw, lovely Chique a la mobilizer, who hatched a postcard project that is thankfully daily, keeps me looking forward to something routine and yet unexpected, making days regular-in-a-good-way and the mailbox not a just a hatchery for bills. Basically, the project is: one a day postcards on a list of eleven, some folks I don't know and some I do, the postcards somehow related to whatever creative work we may be doing or thinking about. Ah, pyramid scheme re-employed. It truly has me plotting and happy, and I've extended it to include 2x a day, the second being a friend not obliged to reply, which for me makes the tandem even more intriguing.

So, here's that which has been my daily pleasure to receive:

Postcard 1, Day 1:



Postcard 2, Day 1:



Postcard 3, Day 2:



Heavens to Betsy (who the hell is Betsy?), ain't it perfect?

*

And in the meantime, my sister is leaving tomorrow. So we took a day out to tube down the Nooksack River, beginning in Acme and pulling out at the Van Zandt bridge. This time around it was me, my sis, brolaw, niece (the corgy), their buddy T, cr, ee and his brother te, all of whom of course were major participants on a day to celebrate being and floating.

We bumped into logjams, made class rapids out of minor flows. Pulled out to pee in the near distance or nearness, then to eat chips plus warm salami sandwiches. We drank far, far irreparably too many a beer, pulling up to the attached cooler raft to refloat, speaking by passing with the chilluns on the sandbanks. I brought my snorkel and used it to good ado to rescue ee's sunglasses, thrilling through the minor snarls. My brolaw and I put behind us an incredibly-stupid scuffufle that occurred over Xmas (both admitting our 50% stupidity, and me admitting %100 sheepishly for sure that nothing is worth bickering about when it comes to friendship).

We avoided talking about irksome things, made sure to touch on those that are ridiculous. I spent a half hour or more attached upside-down to a drowned log midstream, with my legs wrapped around, my torso free-thinking and my mind mellowed with the stream carrying past pebbles both moving and not, plus minnows and my sister a few feet upstream, drifting similar but not the same, and me thinking how much I will miss her, not in any indepth conversations we have, which are rare, but those silent moments midstream, holding on, drifting, beating each other with flailing limbs, then laughing, noticing. The sis is the only one I know who notices as intensely as I do, and I've been pretending I won't notice her departure as much as four years promises I will.

But the stream.








So, it was a wonderful day, all the way through, corgy sulking and all. Brolaw hatching plots for my pregnancy as well, letting him off the inlaws-pressing-for-procreation hook (I recently made the mistake of telling him of my plans to have a kid within the next three years, partner or no. So he's been busily embarrassing me by bringing it up in the company of men I adore and would potentially think about discussing such things with [baby daddy things, and all that, which are tender and dependent, not really about who I would choose but about who really wants such a particular fatherdom], and man, it's fucking horrifying). But besides that, or with that, and plus all the trees and small clouds fluctuating, it was a perfect day. Sad a bit at times because it carried that goodbye. But more drunk and summery than sad.

And ufta, but part of the time, I was thinking about how my friend, in a conversation I finally copped to - called her up for, so's to talk about how I'm somewhat freaked out or upset by recent weird interactions - said that she was afraid to tell me of her happinesses for fear that I would get upset, would put my past on top of things [the happiness of those I love meaning loss for me] and get sad. She said she wished she could share her joy with me without me getting upset, and at first I felt like a monster but then I thought about it...

Often the pairing of a friend, under certain (most) circumstances, means that s/he will be less close, further further and nested very far away. I felt upset to realize that's how I feel most of the time these days; it's not always true, but at least 75% of the time with women, that's how it is: them having a lover means not just that they need you less frequently, but also that they want your intimate attention less and overall. Like friendship's a temporary fill-in, but not for me.

So I thought about this, and how to accept the reality of how I feel, the jealousy in multiple forms, the fear, the preparation for more solitude, the feeling of lack, the lack of words - in light of my close friend's admission that this inner-preparation of mine made it more difficult for her to be close to me. Fuck.


This was the fledgling that flew into the side of my house today. I picked him up (him because of his bright yellow) and held him in my warm palm, us holding at first panic and then sleepiness at the warmth and aching head. I put the little half-feathering creature in the finch bird-feeder, let him sit, took pictures, checked in on him, then noticed he was gone not even in the bushes below. The brolaw thought maybe the crows ripped his innocent head off, and cr thought maybe the cat ate him. Possibly it was one of those two things, but as for my thoughts: certainly he flew away, making a messy flight out of it, but still making it somewhere.

p.s. For all those who wonder what mark you make, little Mitzen is outside fighting and yowling with neighbor cats, and the stupid dog, Jax, is off his food, mourning and miserable. Lambert doesn't bark at cars anymore. All of them are unhappy and confused without Taz.

Labels: postcard project