Campfire Club cabining weekend

[Hey look at this return to blogging with zero preamble. Zero point five preambles maybe.]

This weekend, due to a still-infirmed husband, I took the kids alone up into the mountains for Ollie's Campfire USA troop camping (cabining) trip. We took over much (but not all, unfortunately for the others) of the William Heise County Park campsite cabins in Julian. These are log cabins with wooden slab bunks. The only amenity is a propane heater inside, which has two settings: Off and Inferno. 

(dinner on the porch)

We shared a cabin with friends who were also temporarily fatherless. 

(Ollie, age 6.75, [Guthrie], Edith, age 4.25)

It is lovely up here. The weather has been idyllic. A little too mild, in my opinion. I wanted an extremeish winter experience but got highs in the 50s.

This morning, Edith washed the dishes with Sarah while the boys participated in what we can relatively accurately describe as Feral Play, and I got to sneak off on the adjacent trails for a lovely but hilly run. 

(meh, that's exactly where I turned around. Any other day I would have loved a hoppy hurdly creek crossing but the shower possibilities were iffy upon my return to camp and I didn't want to end up with yellow fever or something).

And then, back at camp, we turned around and hiked nearly the exact same trail with all the kids. Some of it, I spent carrying Edith (pushin' 40lbs) so that was...leggy. 

Back at camp: an addictive and therapeutic introduction to soap carving. I made sure to call it whittling. Ollie and I discussed Old Sneep, a very special and crotchety character from Robert McCloskey's "Lentil" story. His main purpose in the story is to whittle, mutter, and do some pivotal lemon sucking at the book's climax. Definitely check it out.

(I monopolized Edie's soap whittling and then let her etch it to her fancy after I was done)

(This is the sweet face of a photogenic six year old carving a beer bottle into soap)

Edith then took an artistic photograph of her pee. And to occupy her later, I let her tool around in Snapseed with the picture. This happened. 

(I'm pretty sure she was just scrolling all the levels back and forth on every single option. There were also neon green versions. I like the contrast, don't you?)

Ollie then got to build his own "stamp box." God knows what it's for. I think I missed a meeting. Ollie did great, practically doing everything alone while his sister whined next to us. 

After a really fucking crazy group dinner and camp fire, we hiked down to the meadow to stargaze. This was not the peaceful, observant experience we had imagined. It was lord of the flies chaos, except for two seconds of coerced darkness and silence. The stars, though, were crisp and abundant anyway.

And, because I'm in a toasty one room cabin with five people and the temperature is steadily dropping outside, I have very few other options than to go to bed early myself. Actually just writing that sentence made me realize obvs I could play minesweeper on my phone for a while. Good night from the mountains. 

[look. That wasn't difficult. Blogging isn't *that* tedious].

S.O.S.

Hello friends. Here's a(nother) flash fiction story challenge submission for Bony Fingered Limbs, the "Message in a Bottle" contest. Extra short this time. 1000 words.

I am quickly falling in love with writing short stuff. I may very well leave a novel unedited because of this obsession. And let me tell you the few important things I absolutely loved about writing this one. Oh, wait. I'll tell you later. Just read.
*
S.O.S.
(c) J. Evans

If there’s anything Sabine truly regrets it’s not making friends. Many others in her predicament might instead choose: “not having a chance to say goodbye,” or: “the biggest mistake of their entire life,” or: “disappointing someone,” or even, in their darkest, most honest moments: “getting caught.”

Because sometimes she wishes she had someone to say goodbye to. And then she wouldn’t say it.

And with a friend or (dare she imagine) a herd’s worth, she would've also had someone to disappoint. Would she still have done it? Probably. Would it have felt as good? Probably. But oh, to feel that inflicted disappointment. Oh!

Her mind in the clouds (so far from the wall-to-wall grey), Sabine rubs her ankles together, a borrowed trait.

She once saw a young woman stretch long, well-dressed legs beneath the table at Kensington Grill. Though she could have surrounded herself with scores of adoring supporters, she was alone. Sabine loved that about her, watching across the top edge of her hammered steel menu. It was right then that she noticed a flash of movement beneath the table. The woman rubbed her ankles together slowly, front to back, over and over again. Ruby toes pointed out of her peep-toe d’Orsay slingbacks, and she somehow balanced this movement on the tips of her three inch – Sabine looked more closely – no, four inch heels. Sabine downed the rest of her Manhattan and left without tipping. Her walk home was not her most graceful. She nearly stumbled across the freeway bridge to her dumpy apartment, until finally she could put on better heels and see how it felt to rub her ankles together.

Later that night, it wasn’t that she fantasized about that woman. She fantasized about being that woman. The men in her mind complimented her legs as they fucked her. They complimented her elegance. They complimented the way she rubbed her ankles together. Of course they did. When Sabine came, it was unmatched. From that night on, she adopted that ankle rubbing full-strength.

Sabine never considered befriending someone interesting. Instead, she would do one or more of the following: One, obsess. Two, stalk them. Three, mess with their lives so much that these people often utterly lose their minds and cycle through therapists and antidepressants. Four, and perhaps this is her life’s work, her opus: watch them die.

Incredibly meticulous, she never got caught. Well, with one notable exception.

Luckily, for the woman with the ankles, she was an out of town visitor. Sabine never saw her again at the Kensington Grill, or anywhere else in town that might also host such a woman. Sabine gave up on her after eight months, one week, and four days. It frustrated Sabine to conclude that the woman was likely visiting on business, because of course that’s why she was alone. That woman (her name, incidentally, was Summer Ellis Stephanides of Charleston, and she had suffered a particularly difficult mosquito bite on her ankle. She was in California, she had told herself! There were no bugs here!), she hadn’t made a conscious choice to be alone like Sabine. It was circumstantial. If only Sabine knew where she lived. Perhaps that’s why the ankle rubbing stuck. Something to cling to.

Sabine laughs out loud, a cacophony against steel and concrete. She rubs her ankles together and plunges her forehead to her hands, fluffy blonde hair tumbling around her forearms and slipping past her knees. The shampoo they have here is surprisingly spectacular. Right now it is easy to imagine her torture, impossible regret and shame. But Sabine is only thinking about her own curious brand of regret. Shame does not compute.

Sabine only ever killed women. Okay, technically, she never (notable exception) used her hands to kill them but she surely likes to take credit. This time, this last time, this notable exception, things went wrong. Things went really fucking wrong and Sabine’s heart raced like she had never ever known it. Was it panic? Was it adrenaline? There was a woman, and she made the awful mistake of looking at Sabine. The woman (her name, incidentally, was Janice Spencer, and she was thirty-six years old, single, childless, liked crosswords) actually looked at her, and god help her, smiled.

For Sabine, enemies and strangers comfort her. It’s the niceties that unnerve her. It’s the smiles that mess her up. For someone like Janice Spencer, an advertising exec, to smile and exude friendliness was her grave mistake. In her career, Sabine stalked forty-two women and two men, and, as she likes to call it, has “contributed to the demise” of seven of those women, eight if you count Janice (Sabine does not count her mistakes). Her pattern involves months in the obsessing stage, additional months in the stalking stage, until finally, she can make it look like an accident, like suicide, or (her personal favorite) a cold case mystery: no traces, no suspect, but possibly foul play.

The afternoon that Janice smiled at her, Sabine snapped. She lost the cool she had spent twenty-nine years fabricating. It was definitely foul play as she followed her home and sliced her repeatedly with Janice’s collection of under-used steak knives. She definitely left a trace when she left Janice’s cozy Spanish Revival without cleaning up, when she left her handbag on the reproduction soapstone countertop.

She’s not sure why she started fantasizing regrets. Maybe it’s her cellmate, pitiful and spineless and always innocent. Maybe it’s the grey, year after year. Maybe it’s her sentence, looming but not looming at all: life, without parole.

But at the very end, the chink in her armor is so loud it drowns out the rest of her very different brain. It’s not about making mistakes, or the missed thrill of disappointing some imaginary loved one. And it doesn’t matter how detached she always was. Because right now, stronger and stranger than anything else, is Sabine’s need to know: is there anybody out there? and, if so, help.

*

I Would Want Him to Never Recover - story submission

My submission to the Bony Fingered Limbs flash fiction challenge.
It's super short and I do like it. All rights reserved, blah blah blah.

*

I Would Want Him to Never Recover

Julia Evans

*           

“Right here,” he says, pointing ahead. It’s a flat spot, not too many trees, and I can’t help but wonder what the ground looks like without snow.

I've never seen this place without snow.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah. We’ve been eyeing this spot for like a decade.”

“Yeah?” I ask again, not really sure what else to say. Is this some sort of confession? Is he even talking to me? Its not unusual for him to forget I’m even here.

“I’ll start building it in the spring.”

“Wow. What?”

“This spring. Like in, uh, three months? Maybe less? Depends on the snow situation,” he says, looking at me, like right at me. I guess he hasn’t forgotten that I’m really here.

“That’s incredible. Congratulations, I guess,” I say, trying not to cringe, because it wasn’t really as happy as it should be.  

“I know. I feel good about it. It’s exactly what she wanted,” he says, and I’m instantly gone. I’m instantly miles away from him but I haven’t moved an inch.

*

I watch as Andy outlines the foundation with a stick. His shoulders are so bony, they jut out through his thermal. He’s talking to himself again, or maybe he’s talking to her. Or maybe he’s measuring and calculating. I’m not sure which would relieve me more. I hate that he is so lost to someone he can never have again, and then I hate myself for feeling that way. Marian was my friend too, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a soul mate. And if I would ever know the total joy and then total heartache of being loved by this man only to have it taken away, I’d want him to be totally messed up by me, too. I’d want him to mourn me for so long, inhumanly long. I’d want him to never recover. That’s how selfish I am. I’d rather him be stuck in a shell of a life than get over me and move on to the next girl he brings out here.

*

“Well, that is a finely crafted cabin,” I tease.

“Why thank you, my Delia,” he says, nudging my shoulder and God, this is the first time I’ve felt him be like this with me in fifteen years. I’m nearly certain he’s not being his teenaged flirty self, but this is definitely a far cry from his grief-stricken absence that defined the last three years. And it’s even better than the Marian years, the decade of cautiousness, of guarded feelings, of bottling and bottling and bottling up. Or maybe that was just me.

“Wait,” I say, completely high on what buzzes between us. “This is not structurally sound right here.”

I poke around at our tent. We managed to stretch the fly out as far as it goes, so the strings and the pegs reach the little outline Andy drew with a stick.

“Ah, much better. I was about to go all building inspector on you,” I say.

“Will you?” he asks.

I hold my breath.

“Delly, will you help me?” he asks again.

I release my breath. Oh lord, do I release.

“Of course,” I say. “Of course I will.”

“You were so special to Mari,” he says. He closes his eyes and I know I’ve lost him again. “It’d mean the world to her.”

“I know,” I say, my voice more quiet than the wind. “I know.”

*

Of all the fucking times to have this nightmare, it has to happen when he’s sleeping right next to me. I wake up with a shout and panic that he may have heard me. I panic that I shouted more than once. I panic. My breathing is shallow, loud, and I’m using every ounce of strength I am to be still. Play dead. The noise I make as that thought crosses my mind was pitiful, like a meerkat giving birth or something. Because what I just woke up from wasn’t playing. It was real. Real dead. Marian’s lifeless body in her bed, lying next to me, a crossword book crumpled between us, the eight year struggle with acute lymphoblastic leukemia crumpled between us. The space between my grief for her and my grief for what I never had and never would have with her husband, crumpled between us.

Andy’s breathing is shallow, too. Andy’s body is too still too. He heard me.

I’m not sure what I want right now. Do I want him to let this go? Do I want to keep this torment to myself any longer? Or do I want him to just think I’m sad about losing her? Because then he would probably wrap his arms around me and kiss my hair and I would sleep in pure, good-enough, manufactured bliss.

He says nothing. I say nothing. We go back to sleep. Or I do. I never know these things with Andy. He’s always the first up in the mornings. He’s always awake when I go to sleep. He’s always awake when I’m startled awake in the middle of the night. The fact that he is still so tortured by the loss of his wife to never, ever sleep tears me in two. I’m so sad for him, a man I have always loved in some capacity, and will always love first and foremost as a friend. It’s not fair for him to suffer, and for that reason I would give anything for Mari to be alive again, to be healthy, and to be his. I would give my own life.

And for that reason, I will never, ever tell him how I feel. I am a tent, a temporary shelter, a portable shrine. My heart is a nylon cabin, a hack job. And in its place something permanent will etch its way into the ground, mud, grass, snow, and ice to forever memorialize the lucky girl I never was.

*

“Morning, gorgeous,” I swear he says. It’s so real I could hear it.

“Ha. Ha!” I reply, not even sure how my mouth is moving when I’m still half asleep. I can still see my dream. I’m still partway in there, in our old college dorm of all places, but now Andy is there too, calling me gorgeous, but disappearing into an elevator.

“Come on, get up,” he says, and it’s all slipping away. “It snowed some more overnight. We have a nice little rooftop.”

“Unf,” I mumble. “Okay. Give me a minute.”

When I emerge from the tent, as bundled as I could manage without standing up, I cannot hide my gasp.

“Jesus,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says.

Before us, beneath us, laid at our feet, the fresh snow fall overwhelms me. The sun is bright. I close my eyes against the blinding or maybe it’s the tears. Andy has already started shaking down our tiny tent, laying out our measly provisions for breakfast.

“We should hurry. There’s only a little blue sky up there. I wasn’t expecting a storm overnight, so I can’t be certain about today’s weather, either,” he says to the thin air around us. I’ve lost him again, I can tell by the tone in his voice. He’s distant and, as my vicious mind likes to think, probably imagining he’s talking to her instead.

I do not answer. Because no words come out when I try.

Over the last three years my time spent with Andy has become increasingly more difficult. And always as our outings draw to a close, I find myself wondering if this is it. Have I had enough? Can I do this to myself for much longer? And then I see Andy the next time, and he hugs me hello and spins me around and kisses my hair and I’m right back to where I started.

“Delia,” Andy says, drawing out the vowels, the way he always does when he wants to tell me something serious. Like the time he told me, ‘Delia, I’ve met someone.’ Like the time he told me, ‘Delia, I love her.’ Like the time he told me, ‘Delia, we’re getting married.’ Like the time he told me, ‘Delia, she’s sick.’ Like the time he told me, ‘Delia, she wants you to lie with her tonight.”

We’re about ready to go, snowshoes on, packs loaded, lined up. He says it again. “Deeeliaaa.”

I turn around, not graceful at all on behalf of the tennis rackets beneath my feet.

“Andy?” I ask, half irritated that he waits to the very end of this trip to tell me his serious thing, his difficult thing, whatever hand he’s going to deal me next. And half scared of what it might be.

He doesn’t answer for a long time. I stare at him, but he doesn’t really look at me. He’s staring at the skeletal imprint of our tent.

“Nevermind,” he says, as he starts to trudge back to the lodge. “It’s nothing.”

Oak Canyon Trail

Today we took a long (time-wise) hike in Mission Trails. It was absolutely lovely out today. Tiny pink, purple, yellow flowers in bloom, coyotes howled, and a baby rattlesnake crossed our path.

Oak Canyon is one of my favorite parts of MTRP, shady and quiet and just this side of technical. Whenever I make it out there, I'm reminded of the time when I knew the entire park like the back of my hand, and I'm not even exaggerating. I truly miss those days. Today I had to look up a trail map on my phone, scandal!

I'm pretty sure my kids will be in high school before I can take them from the visitor center up to the smoke stacks, down to the valley, up the steps (and more steps, and then some more) to south fortuna, down to the saddle, up to north fortuna, down to oak canyon, past where I saw my mythical shirtless dreamy mandolin player, through the grasslands, and back along the junipero serra trail to the visitor center again. Sigh.

Until then, a spot of oak canyon here and there will have to suffice. Unless you want to babysit? Unless you want to come with me instead of my kids? Unless you play mandolin with you shirt off? Lmk.

build a rocket boys!

This album, in a word, is spectacular. It is seriously captivating.



elbow, my boys. I love them, absolutely adore. You can quote me as saying that Guy Garvey is one of the top few (as in: top two) songwriters alive today. I don't remember exactly how I found them, but I think they opened for someone back in the early 00s, right after their 2001 release, Asleep in the Back. In short, I am telling you that I liked them way before you did (and you, too. Yeah, even you). Every album they have ever made has been nothing short of beautiful.

In 2008, they won the british Mercury Music prize (for their fourth studio album, The Seldom Seen Kid), which still shocks me a little because I always kind of forget that they're not mine, that they're not just something made just for me to fold up and carry around in my back pocket. Every single word, every single note has been written just for me, I promise you. I've been known to say that Elbow was the most underrated band of the last decade, but I guess they're a little bit appropriately-rated now.

This album, "build a rocket boys!" seems to reflect upon their experiences growing up, and all at once I feel so many things, so many conflicting things. It's beautiful and sweet to think about my childhood in Northern England, and it's sad to think about the adolescence and young adulthood and beyond that I didn't have there. But mostly, it's just a collection of songs about home, about having a home and loving your home, but also about feeling so floaty and disconnected and apart from home. And anyone can relate to that. Even in San Diego. (I guess).

(One long June/I came down from the trees/and kerbstone cool/You were a freshly painted angel/Walking on walls/Stealing booze and hour-long hungry kisses/And nobody knows me at home anymore)

(click the album cover for listeny samples on the pitchfork blurb).

Manchester: fuck the what, ftw for sure.

Hell yes.

I am writing this from the official google blogger ap, newlyish launched. It's lovely and simple and so fast. Just in time for the world to stop spinning tomorrow (uh, later today); perhaps now I can say with certainty that I will resurrect the daily posts.

Welcome back me.

I wonder where that picture is going to end up. It's a picture of me, first thing in the morning (robe still on and everything) and looking a little rough around the edges, wouldn't you say?

Everything in progress.

Erik and I have been married for, what, seven and a half years now. We've been dating for ten and a half. You'd think we'd be good at it. Right?

Well, the thing is, and I'm almost certain this is true: almost nobody is naturally good at being married. Sure, most of us are good at being monogamous. We're good at hanging out with someone super awesome and hold their hand all the time. We're good at having constant access to marital sex. We're good at letting someone else lighten the load of our lives: the chores, the money, the suffering, the chores, the chores, and I can't even remember the last time I took the recycling out.

But what *I* have to remind myself sometimes is that I'm not alone. I'm not the only one sitting here sometimes wondering when the perfection is supposed to start while everyone else has it mastered in their spic and span houses with shiny kitchen floors and well-scrubbed, highly literate children gazing admirably upon their parents' happy, loving, inspiring relationship.

And what *I* have to remind myself sometimes is that once you reach a certain number of years together, you don't just pass the test and then not have to study anymore. At least so far, there hasn't been a time when we can slack off without consequences. Marriage, like everything else, is a work in progress.

And what *I* have to remember is that sometimes when it feels like I'm the only one in the marriage progressing, that I'm the only one working to evolve, that I'm probably not. I'm probably spending too much of my energy and time dissecting what is wrong. And I need to remember all those other times when the 70-30 breakdown was tipped in my direction.

But mostly, what I need to remember is that I don't have a perfect marriage. Did you all hear that? I don't have a perfect marriage. But I do have an awesome marriage. We have fun, we are (usually) sweet to each other, and we love each other so much it hurts sometimes. Our children and our marriage are our life's work, and we can't lose sight of that. When we do, we suck. When we remember, we're so, so awesome.

When Ollie was a newborn, one of Erik's oldest friends suggested we write a family mission statement. It could be anything from a detailed vision with lots of semi-colons or bullet points, to a simple one sentence mantra we write in a giant marker on the front of the fridge. We didn't write one, of course, but I'm ready to. I can think of so many things to include in there, and you know I like the semi-colons and lord do I love the bulleted lists, but I really kind of want this to be a one-liner.

But if someone forced it out of me, like in some kind of fucked up family wisdom armed robbery, I'm not entirely sure what I would say. Could I sum up our needs and hopes for Erik and I in the same sentence as our needs and hopes for our children? I know I want my children to become compassionate and loving human beings. I know I want us to always trust each other more than anyone else. I know that I want us to always treat each other in the way that you should treat the utmost special people in your life, not in the sometimes shitty ways we tend to treat the people we know the best. I know that I want us to find a common purpose in making the world a better place. I know that I want us to continue to find solace and comfort and joy, so much joy, in our friends and community. But I also want us to always search for it within our little family unit first.

And I feel like I'm just getting warmed up, but seriously, that's too much already.

It needs to be something to help us keep our eyes on the prize, to help us grow together, to help us remember to be more awesome than perfect, and to help us stay centered and focused on why we're together, why we're a family. And, perhaps you've guessed this already: this mission statement will always be a work in progress.

So, before I ask Erik, what would you say? What is your family (or marriage! or personal!) mission statement? What would you write with a giant marker on your fridge? What would you put on a post-it note on your kitchen cabinet/desk/dashboard/toilet seat/underwear drawer? Pretend I'm brandishing some kind of psychologist weapon in your face. How do you spell hai-ya?

Problem solving.

Ollie: "I want to look at my bum."
Me: "People really can't see their own bums from up there."

(Pause, deep in thought.)

Ollie: "When I grow up I'm going to have a kid called Ollie."
Me: "Really? How will you know which one when someone calls and asks for Ollie? Will one be called Ollie Junior?"
Ollie: "No. I'm going to have a kid called just Ollie so that I can look at my own bum."

Edith update

It's 6:15 am on Saturday, March 19th. It's St. Joseph's Day, the legendary exact day the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano. It's also Grandma Lynda's birthday, and friend Guthrie's birthday.

But listen. Edie is still asleep. This is the first time. And two nights ago I'm pretty sure she nursed five times.

Ollie started periodically sleeping through the night at 15 months, and probably by this age (Edie is just about 18 months), he was more reliably doing so. I only remember his age at 15 months because he slept straight through for the first time when we were in England the last time. As if i'd regularly update a baby book! Bite your tongue!

And so on that note, I am going to record a little bit about our sweet girl right here. It's not as if I can get back to sleep (which makes me want to cry).

Edith Nora
Age 18 months
- Bunch of teeth on top, including a few molars, only two teeth on bottom
- weight: who knows. >20 lbs ish.
- height: I'll have to check when she wakes up.

Words: mama, daddy, ollie, edie ("gigi"), bagel, coffee (doesn't sound anything like coffee), noodle, ro-ro (used for row, our friend rowan, and any similarly sized boy), down, dinosaur, stop, pee, poo, bum (used in general for anything naked, also used for bum. i.e., without a diaper, she is "bum bum."), nose, cheek, chin, ear, star (she's more likely to sign this one), quack, bath, juice, water, tickle, snack, hot, no, diaper, giraffe, nurse... and that's about all I can think of.

She doesn't sign too much, but she will sign more, eat, water, nurse, giraffe, gorilla, airplane, star, moon, and snake.

So that's our quickie Edie update. She's in the thick of that stubborn and totally unreasonable toddler stage, but the upsides are that she is just completely sweet, completely devoted to Ollie, and always willing to help. She's very task-oriented. She's still very clingy and god forbid a stranger tried to talk to her or a new kid runs too close to her.

I love you, little peanut.

posted from Bloggeroid

Back.

I can't really explain what exactly made me open up this blog again tonight, but I finally got rid of the six years' worth of custom template changes and switched to a stock template. It was freeing, in a way. My HTML skills have not kept up with the internet. To say nothing of the fact that I didn't feel like drawing attention to my "kiss and tell" series anymore. If you want to read about my questionable past, you'll have to read every last post to find them (you pervs). All my links, my dorky little feature pieces, all of it... buried anonymously in the archives. Exhale.

I'm looking forward to a little more writing these days. I've been doing a lot of creative writing on my own, and it's so delicious to do so without any delusions of having anyone ever read it. Still, I miss blogging. I miss sharing more than 140 characters. We'll see how I can reconcile where this blog once was with the kind of (a) writer and (b) interneter I am today.

But mostly, look:



Side note: I need to change the font size in the post body, but I can only change the post title. This is TOO LARGE. I'M ACTUALLY SHOUTING AT YOU. Remember my old font? It was 8pt. EIGHT! I had to change my tagline from "my heart bleeds pure 8pt verdana" and I am not pleased.

xoxo. I love you and missed you, little blog.

Growing advice

Growing advice.

I'm just going to delve right into this and skirt around the fact that I haven't blogged in 5 months. We planted our vegetable garden, finally. It's the most gardenest garden I've ever planted, actually using up all 3 of our big raised beds, versus the sole one last year (that mostly failed) and the miscellaneous small patio pots from our past. I feel like I know only the basics about growing food, and most of those basics I just picked up from word of mouth. This worries me. Now, we don't have fancy cable, so when I say "This worries me," it is in the voice of Bill Hader doing an impression of Tim Gunn, rather than Tim Gunn himself. I think I'm better off.

Anyway, so, in the interest of increasing the word of mouthiness of my grower success, I'm going to list what we've planted and ask for input, anecdotes, warnings, and whatever else. Just tell me everything.

A blueberry bush (ozark). Lorien already told me blueberries like acidic soil, so I got some coffee bean husks from Caffe Forte, where they roast their own beans. the husks are more acidic than used grounds, apparently. I just kind of randomly sprinkled a few around the base of the plant and then maybe a day or two later, put some compost on top? Not sure how often to coffee-husk it. Also, will I need to somehow net or cage this from birds?

Malabar spinach. This was a seedling that we transplanted from City Farmer's. The leaves are already 3" long or so. It grows in a vine. One day, Ollie picked a leaf and ate it whole. This is the child that hates the feel of leafy greens on his tongue and will spit them out in disgust.

Basil. I planted this from seed, and whatever, they're doing fine. I actually planted a TON of seeds, and am now regretful that I didn't use the space for something more... bang-for-your-buck-y. These are now sprouting and looking decent. I'm pretty sure I'll have to thin these, like, pull out entire seedlings, as they grow up. Right?

Crookneck yellow squash. Boring, squash. However, we had the least successful zucchini plants in all the land last year, so let's not underestimate my ability to screw up something so simple.

Strawberries. I realize now that this was a mistake. I'm thinking we should pull up this little "6-pack" seedling (from City Farmer's) and put them in a low/wide container, because apparently strawberries are crazy spreaders? And the fruit will rot if it spends too much time touching the soil. Hmph.

Swiss chard. We eat a lot of chard in our house, so hopefully we can keep up with the three long rows of chard I planted. I planted this from seed just over a week ago, and all of them have sprouted now. They started sprouting after 6 days. Cute. Today, though, Ollie managed to drag his rake through a few of the tiny unsuspecting sprouts. Ugh. I think they'll survive. Afterwards, Ollie said very matter of fact-ly, "I hurt the little chard sprouts."

Pumpkins. Our very own pumpkin patch! I just assumed these would take forever to grow, but the sprouts were up after 5-6 days. One sprouted before our eyes, which was kind of magical. Now I'm worried that we'll be done with pumpkins by august.

Abe Lincoln heirloom tomato. This was kind of a whim choice. It was a seedling from City Farmer's. The leaves smelled good and the little binder they have described them as very red and juicy so I salivated and bought it. It's also apparently quite resistant to disease. We planted this in our third bed, as far away as possible from where our old cherry tomatoes breathed their last.

Peas. Oregon peas, apparently. These were seeds. Well, peas. Ollie had fun putting the little dried peas in the holes I made. I planted three short rows (the width of the bed), right next to...

Beans. I can't remember the type of bean. It's a pole/string bean. I planted 2 short rows, but used quite a few seeds. I'm not sure about those rows. The seed packet said to do 6 seeds per foot, but then they were all "plant spacing after thinning: 6-10" apart." Anyway, I put those next to the peas because I assume I'll need to build some sort of pole/trellis/vine thing for them.

Sweet potatoes. Well, we haven't planted these yet, but we dug a hole for them in our third bed and will plant them as soon as City Farmer's get some or the neglected potatoes on my counter start sprouting (although I can't tell if they have been cut at all). I think we need to try to dig a little deeper, but we'll see. The soil down there is such crap.

A baby. Obviously we didn't plant this one in the garden. Currently halfway sprouted. Due 9/28. I have a delightful midwife, Karly Nuttall, who was actually at Ollie's birth, and she even comes to our house for my prenatal appointments. Dreamy. This one I kind of have down; it's the vegetables I need help with.

That, my loves, is all.

Little things I believe in.

Little things I believe in.

Tonight, briefly, I stood slightly in-the-way in a church kitchen surrounded by old-ish people and their macaroni and cornbread, while I got ready to head over to campus. A priest shared his plastic cup of beer with me, Arrogant Bastard of all things to find in such a setting.

He and I then left for campus, where seven of us sat around a makeshift altar and shared a quiet and beautiful eucharist service, probably the most intimate one I have ever experienced. The musician played some Sufjan, "Like a father to impress/Like a mother's mourning dress/If we ever make a mess/I'll do anything for you," and the wind rustled our pages and the eucalyptus leaves. It was cool and dark and otherwise silent, the campus still and collectively cowering in the dark recesses of their minds, or maybe just in the libraries, on this finals-eve. Part of me wishes we had hundreds of people attend, or at least tens of people, but the other part of me realizes that then we would never in a million years have the type of experience we had tonight.

I have been struggling with my faith and feeling lost and answer-less, un-engaged, for so long, and only tonight have I realized that I have just been looking in the wrong place, to the wrong people, to the wrong person. I assume I will write more on this one day but right now I'm liking being obtuse.

It's not very often that I get to share a beer and the cobwebbed corners of my soul with anyone, much less do so in a church kitchen or an empty nook of a college campus.

I am quickly realizing that I love my job.

Lo-fi.

Lo-fi.

This is an incredible album:



Neutral Milk Hotel, "In the Aeroplane over the Sea." This, my friends, this is about as punk as I get.

I should say that I am relatively out of touch with music these days, so you have to imagine the happiness in my heart whenever I walk into Krakatoa and the baristas are playing this CD. I'm all, "dude! I HAVE this!" and somewhere, somehow, my indie fairy earns her wings.

I vividly remember buying this album, probably late 2004, at the old Second Spin records in PB (no longer standing). I had read something about the band that caught my eye, so I blindly bought the album without listening to it, even though Second Spin used to have that little listening station in the front. As I paid for it, the deliciously scrawny indie rock clerk said, direct quote, "This is an amazing album." Not only did this serve to validate my purchase, but it kind of validated my taste in music. Another pair of indie fairy wings!

I didn't love the CD at first. It was too raw and punk and uncomfortable, and I was too into Iron and Wine or Sufjan Stevens so I wanted all my music to be silky smooth. Cat Power was as edgy as I got. But, NMH grew on me. Holy hell, did it grow on me.

And thanks to You Tube, you too can listen to some of it without spending money. And you can stare at the album cover the whole time. This song is "Ghost," which is one of my favorite songs on the CD. I mean, there are so many quintessential "In the Aeroplane..." songs, including the title track itself and Two Headed Boy, and maybe because of this, songs like Ghost kind of get overlooked.



But you should also listen to "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea," too, because it is incredible. All secrets sleep in winter clothes with one you loved so long ago.

National Blog Not-Posting Month: a Post in Two Parts.

National Blog Not-Posting Month: a Post in Two Parts.

It looks like I not only failed at NaBloPoMo, I pretty much boycotted it. !!. Julia loves a good boycott. But, why didn't I just hold out another week? Well, I am tired of trying to stay away from you, Bella.

Basically I have two major and unrelated things to post about. Instead of doing bullets when I am feeling all disjointed and incoherent, I am going to do separate subheadings like a good little recovering technical writer.

TTC
Yes, dear friends, there is an internet acronym for deciding to start or increase your family. "trying-to-conceive" just has way too many letters and that pesky i-before-e-except-after-c thing you would always have to remember. This way, we can most efficiently be all OMG ur TTC m2 EWCM! I'm not going to explain the last acronym because we're in mixed company and I'm too classy for that.

Erik and I decided to get serious about trying to get pregnant again this last month (do you see how much shorter that sentence could be if I could force myself to use "TTC" as a verb?). We really haven't been avoiding it for a while now, but we certainly weren't "trying." And, these things being as they are, this month also yielded the first disappointment, the first un-success. I had assumed that because I am in a much more relaxed and prepared headspace than when we were trying to get pregnant with Ollie, that the disappointment wouldn't sting as much. But I swear, it's like it picked up almost right where we left off. The only thing I'm missing is the underlying fear that I would never have any children. But, oh, the sting, tempered only with the slightly distracting dull ache of cramps, those little bitches.

I'm not charting at all (there is NO WAY the little morning person in our family would allow me to leisurely take my temperature every morning before getting out of bed), and we're not really doing anything special besides resuming all the herbal teas and tinctures that are supposed to do things like lengthen your luteal phase and balance your hormones. The only reason I paid any attention to the dates this month was because cycle day 1 happened to fall on November 1st. With Ollie, I got a faint faint positive line on a pregnancy test on cycle day 25, so with November 25th rolling through yesterday, I have to say I definitely had my hopes up, way up. A 25 day cycle is pretty average for me, maybe even a little long, but it means that the little hippie tricks I was doing to lengthen my luteal phase (the second half of your cycle, after ovulation) probably didn't work.

Before we started to try, we had thought a lot about child spacing, and I guess we had even given ourselves a year+ range that we would consider ideal, and even then, it's not like it wouldn't be completely awesome to have two children spaced out however long. We are a little behind in that year+ window, but there is still plenty of time. It could take us another six months, or it could be longer. Or it could be next month. I know that I'm 100% okay with any of these scenarios, but I don't know if I will ever be able to forget this feeling of disappointment and failure at the end of the cycle. It's as fresh today as it was almost three years ago. Typ. I can quickly forget how painful contractions are, but this I can't seem to shake?

Twilight
On that happy note, lets move on to something even worse. I have whispered about Twilight quite a bit on here, I'm sure, fully owning up to the fact that I indulged in the books, and now the movie. As I read the books, I was annoyed by the pathetic writing (unadventurous word choice, redundant word choice, and annoying word choice, to be specific), the cloying narrator, and the obvious author-proxy fantasy that involved someone whose tastes in literature were stuck in the 11th grade. (Note, I found the movie a huge improvement). BUT I still loved reading the stories. I thought it (it being Twilight, the first book in the series) had a great concept: girl meets vampire, girl loves vampire. Vampire meets girl, vampire wants to kill girl, vampire loves girl. Kind of Buffyish. Oh wait, exactly Buffy-ish. Stephenie Meyer claims to have never seen Buffy. That said, she kind of laughs in the face of traditional vampire legend, and does so so uninhibitedly that you assume she did it on purpose?

[Listen. I know the kind of writer I am, and when faced with the option of painstakingly researching centuries of legend and lore versus just making my own shit up however I want, I know which option I'd choose to make a quick buck or two.]

But, then I read more of the books. Concurrent to reading the rest of the books (this all took place over a 5 day period), I also started devouring some of the criticisms and, uh, mockeries, online. And it was at this point when the frightening, blood-curdling world of Twilight fans was revealed to me. Oh, mercy. Hold me.

One blog in particular completely defines my Twilight experience.

Everyone, meet Cleolinda. Here is her blog: http://cleolinda.livejournal.com BUT WAIT, don't go there yet. Start here, at a special Wiki table of contents thingy for her blog. !!. That should link you right to the "Twilight Book Discussion Entries." Make yourself a cup of tea, find a cozy corner, and watch yourself start to think in strikethrough font.

Next up is someone I discovered last night, who isn't as endearingly original as Cleolinda but maybe I wouldn't think that way had I stumbled upon this "LDS Sparkledammerung" series first. Okay, so back to the sparkledammerung. Whatever, we don't try to understand these things, we just pass on the facts. This person has gone through all of the books from a Mormon perspective. Nay, not just that, but they shed light on all of the parallels and symbols for LDS things and doctrines in the story. Here it begins: LDS Sparkledammerung. It starts off a little choppy but who am I to judge?

[Also, it turns out, somebody has written their masters thesis on Mormon tenants in the Twilight series. It's a PDF file, by the way. This is all good and well, but I kind of prefer to read about this stuff when they're not forced to use intelligent language and nice phrasings. I want someone to use bad words and photoshop to layer on some sparkles.]

All in all, I have learned a few Key Takeaways from my time with Twilight, but nothing more striking than this: NO, I am not underestimating the Youth of America by saying that they are smarter than this, that they are not going to eat this stuff up. The movie made $70 million its first weekend. SEVENTY MILLION DOLLARS.

This is not going to be the end of my discussion about this. I am still trying to wrap my brain around this and decide how I really feel, because even though they were enjoyable books and an enjoyable movie: WTF, I say. What the fuck.

So that is all. TTC and sparklemotion.

Yearbook Confessions, vol IV

Yearbook Confessions, vol IV

I have to admit that I am only lagging on this project because I am a lazy HTML-er and never feel like looking up the links to the other entires in the series. But, you're worth it!

This next installation has the shortest message in my entire yearbook, and also another one I almost overlooked, because it wasn't in the blank pages at the front or the back of the book. Rather, it was on page 3 of the actual dorky introductory photos and inspirational quotes. In fact, Greg scribbled (I almost made a pun that only people who know his last name would get) his message over some 40 point text that says, "We didn't just touch... We felt." Which makes it so much better.

Greg apparently remembers the first time I rode on a school bus. That makes me cringe so much, although he thankfully glossed over any details of how awkward and ridiculous I was.

Dixon,
I remember seeing you ride the bus for the 1st time in middle school. Then you became popular. I have really honestly enjoyed meeting you and being your friend. Remember Pride and Prejudice and the presentation we did. Also, remember the times we spent in Middlemas's class making fun of her and me listening to you talk about Mr. Mitchell. The best of luck to you in el futuro and we will see each other again, I know it,
Love,
Greg S

There we go again with the listing of "intimate" details which are really not that intimate. Remember Pride and Prejudice! OMG!

Interestingly, we have yet to see each other again. He is a very good person, so I hope he was right.

And here is the shortest message in my entire yearbook. The best part is that I have no idea who this is, which is even more fail because of the message's content. The only Ryans I can remember had signed the yearbook in other places, and included their last names.

Hey sexy.
-Ryan

Awesome.

Things, they are going on.

Things, they are going on.

Here is my life these days, neatly packaged in a bulleted list.

Ollie is officially singing, as of last Tuesday. SINGING. His first real-song-that-we-noticed is a Music Together song from our current class, called Palo Palo. It's in Spanish! My bilingual musical genius! Actually, while I was singing it to him, he sang, "Baw-oh Baw-oh, Ay Ay Ah" and then did a happy dance, which perhaps only a mother could hear as "Palo, palo, palo, palo, palito palo ay, ay ay ah, palo bonito palo ay." But he definitely tried to sing at different intervals, in a high pitched sing-songy tone.

That's right, it's a song about a stick. A pretty little stick. Ay Ay Ah.

Tonight, he sang "The Wheels on the Bus," which is usually a big hit around here, what with it's wheel-ness and bus-ness. He sang "wee-ah [muffled two syllable placeholder for "on the"] bus" first, and later added "round and round." Well, "rah [muffle] rah."

Notable: Ollie's word for "wheel" sounds exactly like his word for "willy." "wee-ah." Yes, we are calling it his willy. I know I should really be anatomically correct with him and call it a penis, but I can't help myself. Besides, I am English, and all English penises are willies. They just are.

I am currently rereading one of my top five all time favorite books, "The Virgin Suicides" by Jeffrey Eugenides. I have probably written about this book an awful lot, but I recently found this old post, mostly about the way the soundtrack, the movie, and the book work together in my head, which got me reading the book again. I had forgotten about the amazing narrative voice in the book. I think this is probably my third or fourth time reading, and I still can't get enough of it.

However, it's a brand new copy (my original one has long since been loaned and lost), which kind of makes me sad in a "Perks of Being a Wallflower" copy-significance sort of way, but I do love cracking open the binding on new books.

For the last few months, I have been making my own espresso at home, nearly every morning. This is not because I am too cool for normal drip coffee; it's because all I have is an espresso machine. This is not (entirely) because I am too cheap for my beloved Krakatoa or Calabria lattes; it's because I seriously cannot survive long enough without coffee to actually get the both of us dressed, ready and out of the door to buy some.

Ollie can point out what happens next in the espresso machine set-up and usage.

I finally tried Dreena Burton's Autumn Puree recipe, and OMG. Dude. That is some deliciousness. I admit that I shied away from it for so long purely because of the word "puree." People, this is not puree. THIS IS MASHED POTATOES. But (unsweetenedly) sweet. And autumnal. It's a mixture of sweet potatoes and butternut squash (or other winter squash), baked nearly whole (in my case, with copious amounts of coconut oil and some cinnamon) and blended up with some non-dairy milk (hemp milk here) and some spices that I probably can't list without violating copyrights. But they are... autumnal.

After writing about it just now, I was about to go into the kitchen to start making some more, but it kind of takes a while what with all the baking, and it's kind of 11:30 pm.

I can't even begin to write about how I feel about Obama's victory, but until then I will touch on the total buzzkill that is Proposition 8. Erik sent me this op-ed piece from Joe Solmonese, the president of the Human Rights Campaign: http://www.hrc.org/11522.htm. I found some of it a little hard to attach myself to in this sort of middle ground in the essay's rhetoric, a straight person opposed to prop 8, but overall it is a really powerful and crucial statement. Particularly this:

In recent years, I’ve been delivering this positive message: tell your story. Share who you are. And in fact, as our families become more familiar, support for us increases. But make no mistake: I do not think we have to audition for equality. Rather, I believe that each and every one of us who has been hurt by this hateful ballot measure, and each and every one of us who is still fighting to be equal, has to confront the neighbors who hurt us. We have to say to the man with the Yes on 8 sign—you disrespected my humanity, and I am not giving you a pass. I am not giving you a pass for explaining that you tolerate me, while at the same time denying that my family has a right to exist. I do not give you permission to say you have me as a “gay friend” when you cast a vote against my family, and my rights.

And that is all.

Shame Shame Shame.

Shame Shame Shame.

This was going to be a Facebook status update but it got too grammatically vague with the third person (ARGH), and we all know I'm too wordy for Facebook status updates to truly satisfy me. I am at Filter coffee shop in North Park right now. I just had to stop searching for help with my Twilight Halloween costume, because I was too self-conscious of what all the other* emo-punk rock mac users were thinking of me as all the Twilight fansites loaded on my screen.

That all said, this is going to be my worst/best Halloween costume since the year I was Ann Coulter. The best part will be watching the recognition on all of the closeted Twilight-readers' faces at the party.

____
* = other as in, not including me. I am not remotely emo or punk rock, although I do love Neutral Milk Hotel. And I have a Mac. But really? I am only here without my toddler because he is at babysitting co-op at Nelwyn's house. I am *so* hard core. Oh, and see also: Twilight fansites loading on my mac.

Faith and Prop 8.

Faith and Prop 8.

Yesterday, I said, "There is nothing Christian about this ballot measure," and wanted to clarify. I mean, for those Californians (and, you know, all humans) who happen to believe in Jesus, this debate is most definitely a religious issue. But the actual proposition, promoting discrimination and intolerance? Not a chance.

In many churches around the country today, the gospel reading included (I believe) the section in the 22nd chapter of the book of Matthew that reads: When the Pharisees heard that he had silenced the Sadducees, they gathered together, and one of them, a lawyer, asked him a question to test him. “Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?” He said to him, “’You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

Jesus would not stand for such intolerance, inequality, and hate. He would not stand for creating new legislature that promoted discrimination. In fact, Jesus healed the centurion soldier's "pais," a boy slave used by the centurion soldier for sexual purposes (in both Matthew and Luke). He did so without warning, without condition, without pause, and even said that he was amazed by the devotion from the slave. And I say with great certainty that any occurrence of anti-homosexual text in the New Testament (and possibly even the Old Testament but I haven't really studied that one) is entirely due to the political bias of translators for centuries. (If you are curious about this translation issue, here is an excellent source from the World Policy Institute.)

But all that aside, and even Separation of Church and State aside, it comes down to the fact that Jesus is telling us to love our neighbors as ourselves, above and beyond any other law that tells us otherwise. No person should add discrimination to the state constitution, certainly not someone who follows Jesus. I guess when I say "there is nothing Christian about this ballot measure," what I really mean is that this proposition challenges our common life, our common toil, our shared existence in our communities. It threatens our equality and humanity. It attacks respect and tolerance. That right there is enough to oppose this measure. But it also happens to go against exactly what Jesus said. And not just some random, out of context parable or musing, but exactly what Jesus said was the most important thing he would ever say.

I'll be back with the rest of the local and state ballot measures soon.

My Platform, part one

My Platform, Part One.

It's no secret that I can't vote. It's also no secret that voting is probably THE most important right and responsibility afforded to a citizen. And despite that, I'm increasingly realizing, voting is probably not enough. We need to talk about the issues, talk about how we will vote, talk about the things we're not sure of, and, in my case, just talk.

On November 4th, my husband will take my First Generation American son to the polling station, and instead I will probably go to Melanie's house and do shots to fend off the nervousness. Here's how I would vote, on the major things. I also have some thoughts on the less covered, less exciting stuff, and will post that soon enough, too:



President of the United States: Barack Obama

In my relatively short lifetime, I have never been so inspired by a political leader as I am by Obama. I have never felt such a drive to truly change my country rather than complain about it. The mere thought of the direction of our country under his leadership gives me hope, and makes me feel at peace. I could go on and on.




No on Proposition 8.

In my mind, there is nothing redeeming about this ballot measure. There is nothing Christian about this ballot measure, so don't go there. Jesus would turn water into wine at a homosexual wedding, FYI. Despite what some of the supporters of Prop 8 say, it will not require that our 4th graders will study homosexuality in school. That is such fearmongering. 4th graders don't even study heterosexual marriage. And, to tell you the truth, I kind of wish my kids would be exposed to this level of equality in school. It's important to me that Ollie grow up in a world where he and his neighbors are free to be with the people they love, to spend the rest of their lives together, fully recognized and supported by the state.




District 3 City Council: Stephen Whitburn

This is a hot race right now, between Stephen Whitburn and Todd Gloria. We get at least two mailings each day. District 3 covers Hillcrest, University Heights, North Park, South Park, Golden Hill, City Heights, Kensington, Talmadge, and Normal Heights. Basically, my favorite parts of San Diego, and Stephen Whitburn lives in North Park, my (obvious) favorite part of District 3. Stephen Whitburn has nabbed critical endorsements from the Democratic Party and the Sierra Club. Whitburn and Gloria are both plenty liberal (and also, both are openly gay), but I have to side with Whitburn's stronger stance against excessive development and in favor of smart growth and infrastructer, and a stronger campaign focus on education. The Sierra Club endorsement also sealed the deal for me. Actually, Erik voted for Whitburn in the primary, and that's probably what really did make up my mind.



City Attorney: Mike Aguirre (incumbent)

Mike Aguirre is (and feel free to kill me for using this word) a total maverick. Our City Attorney since 2004, he is a hardworking, courageous badass and will not back down, will not pander to the city council or mayor's office, and will not rest until the people of San Diego are well represented. The amount of material this guy publishes is ridiculous. He is constantly working. Also, he runs the Rock and Roll Marathon every year in San Diego, every single one since it was established in 1998. Only having done it once, I have no idea how he manages to train for marathons year-round (something like 23 total marathons) without fully sacrificing his professional and personal life, but NO, he continues to be one of the more prolific public figures San Diego has ever known. Like I said, badass. He probably has to force himself to go running at the end of the day lest he light stuff on fire or explode. Mike Aguirre will be one of the new characters in next season's Heroes.

Aguirre's opponent, Jan Goldsmith, is supported by developers, Republicans, and the Union Tribune. Oh, also, the Log Cabin Club? His entire campaign platform is to just kind of snark on Mike Aguirre, so that's annoying. Like, every line is "I will do such and such, UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE."




No on Proposition 4.

Prop 4 changes the CA constitution, mandating parental consent (and a 48 hour waiting period) for minors receiving abortions. The limited allowances and exceptions in the ballot measure are insignificant. Having once been a 14 year old girl (paraphrase credit to Jeffrey Eugenides), I will tell you that Proposition 4 will undeniably increase the risks associated with abortion in teenage girls. Alone, Prop 4 will NOT decrease the amount of teenage abortions. It will send them to Mexico. It will result in them trying dangerous methods to attempt to end the pregnancy, and I'm not just talking about the stereotypical coat hanger. I'm also not just talking about young women who fear physical abuse from their parents. I'm not just talking about young women who were raped. I would also like to add that opposition for Prop 4 is not just about fear and safety, protecting teenager girls - it's about trusting them. It's about treating them as human beings.

I also want to add that I fear this proposition is being opposed not because of the rights, health, and safety of teenage girls, but because of opposition to abortion in general. Believe what you may about abortion, but I can't imagine a more at-risk group of individuals than teenage women to deny unbridled access to all their options. It would be so devastating, so dangerous, and ultimately, so ineffective in reducing abortions.




Yes on Proposition 2

I know you're probably writing me off here, the crazy vegan. Hear me out. I understand that the critics assume that, in particular, poultry farming will be pushed out of state due to a financial ability to meet the new requirements. I do pity the farmers and their families that will be required to adjust to safer, more humane, and more environmentally friendly and sustainable practices. However, I do not support inhumane and non-sustainable farming to the point that I do not consume the products of these methods. If we have to have that kind of farming in order to keep farmers employed, then something is wrong. Hopefully Prop 2 will fix this.

Apparently, it will cost farmers 1 cent per egg to switch from confined cages. But, correct me if I'm wrong here because I'm no economics whiz, but wouldn't the price to consumers decrease as more cage-free, humane eggs were available and on our California grocery shelves? Increased supply. right?

Jobs will not be lost, quite the contrary. Mexico will not suddenly develop an egg export surplus and become a primary supplier for California. It will NOT make our food less safe.

The consequences of crated, caged farming are not worth it.

And that's all for now. I know, I know, so much for my self-instituted ban on political blogging. I just couldn't help myself.

Songs for a Blue Guitar.

Songs for a Blue Guitar.

Yeah, it looks like I'm going to talk about something I never talk about on here: music. Today, I dusted off Red House Painters' "Songs for a Blue Guitar," which I have to say, is probably one of the best albums ever made. As the first strums fired up in the first song, "Have you Forgotten," I felt this really amazing warmth and familiarity, a good and faithful old friend.



I also then remembered blogging about the song something like five years ago. A few days ago, in the Iron and Wine Trapeze Swinger post, I told you the only other time I posted lyrics in full on this blog was for another Iron and Wine song. Well, I was wrong, and I just wanted to own that.

I suppose if there's anything to rival Iron and Wine's imagined lyrical sovereignty on here, it might as well be something from Songs for a Blue Guitar.

Yearbook Confessions, vol III

Yearbook Confessions, volume III: "and I'm signing your yearbook."

(volume I)
(volume II)

This absolute gem is from Ali, one of my dearest and oldest friends. He recently moved back to town and good times ensued. Although it's really messing with me to switch back and forth saying Ollie and Ali.

I'm not even going to introduce this message, because it is just *that* awesome.

Julia,
It is 11:53 am June 11, 1996. We're sitting here at lunch. Ryan is eating nachos, Nick is sucking on bread sticks, and I'm signing your yearbook. I'm glad you chose UCSD because I prophesized [sic] it on the back of the picture I gave you. I'll see you over the summer and next year at school.
Later,
Ali

So heartfelt, and I'm so glad he specified what he was doing.

Creative.

Creative.

I've been trying to do a little more creative writing lately. I am so far from the writer I would like to be, or, even more frustratingly, the writer that I sometimes think I am, while flickers of an image or a story quickly slip away from me as I sit paralyzed at the keyboard, unable to translate. A few months ago, I started writing (in fact, I even got halfway through) a story but have recently concluded it is a big suck. Sorry to everyone who read bits and pieces or even entire chapters (or the whole thing, Sarah). Maybe one day I'll wrap it all up and we can resolve some cliffhangers. Regardless, the time I spent on that story was an amazing experience, and it probably improved my writing. Mostly, it just felt good to create and besides a major screenwriting contract (wherein I have a clause to oversee the soundtrack too), that's really what I want out of writing.

Then I started wondering about what I could do in a blogging space. First there's the obvious problem I have that whenever I get remotely inspired and try to be fancy with words, I end up just talking about music. But we also have to contend with the boundaries of a blog: public, supposedly unfiltered, and supposedly real life, non-fiction. I have written some pretty obscure stuff on here, mostly because I was burying something significant at the time and needed an outlet, an anonymous outlet. For better or for worse, this blog is nowhere near as anonymous as I had originally intended, and only occasionally does that really bother me. Usually it's a blessing, in more ways than one, to the point that basically everyone I know [but am not related to] knows it exists. If you tell my parents I will cut you. But because this outlet is no longer anonymous I just had to make what I painted on the canvas unrecognizable.

[There was also the time a few days before I got married where I clearly didn't think to sugar coat with "creative" obscurity, writing, and I quote, "all my friends hate me and only talk about themselves."]

And on the other hand, sometimes I just want to pull something out of thin air.

Anyway, there's one thing I hate more than blogging, and it's blogging about blogging, so I won't speak of it again (tonight). So without further ado I think I might start peppering this "website" with random little dalliances in creative writing, tiny outbursts of fiction (however ambiguous), little practices (however excruciating).

***

This is a conversation she didn't have with me.

"I love it when the moon is like this," I said without pointing.

But she couldn't see anything, squinting through the windshield in search of some giant, pink, low version, the type of moon that usually makes her breath catch. Finally, she caught sight of it. A tiny slice of crescent, thinner even than the silver wedding ring draped around her finger, flashing in matching intervals with the overhead street lights.

"Oh, I almost didn't see it," she answered clumsily while her thoughts were flooded by the greatness of so delicate a moon and the greatness of me watching it too, next to her. She wanted to say more, to own the beauty in the sky, to share it with me somehow, but she held it captive.

Then, it was gone again, behind a building or even a leafless branch. It was, after all, easy to hide.

She drove away from that moment hoping I just assumed that my love for the moon was profound enough to silence her, not that she didn't care. About it, about me. Or, she tried to hope that I didn't think anything of it at all and that should probably be her best option.

Later she stood close to me outside the tall building that somehow still felt low-slung and wide, the night quiet and easy between us.

"I'm drawn to you," she wanted to say, and the air was no longer easy. The remaining few trickled out, sometimes greeting us but sometimes hurrying past, her thoughts excited and proud that someone might think there was something between us. We talked hushedly about meaningless things, things which could have been overheard but maybe both she and I craved the whisper.

She didn't want to talk about meaningless things.

And she didn't want to say goodnight first. She didn't want to leave. But perhaps even moreso she didn't want me to say goodnight first and have to respond quickly and awkwardly with something like, "oh yeah, sure, I should get going too," so she did say it first. But this is about what she didn't say. And what I then couldn't say back to her.

Yearbook Confessions, vol II

Yearbook Confessions, volume II.

(see volume I)

Just now, I realized that for this shameful blogging project, I should probably get the rest of my high school yearbooks and, HOLD ON FOR THIS, my middle school yearbooks from my parents' house. Unfortunately I was up there today and walked away empty handed.

Today I will have two relatively mild ones to hold you over until I finally get around to typing up the high school boyfriend's message, wherein he lists the contents of his bank account. One will actually be a non-cliche-ridden note. This is from Courtney, who was, if I recall, valedictorian. Or one of them. Whatever, she was brilliant beyond comprehension. And delightfully sarcastic. And a huge Tori Amos and No Doubt (in the early 90s!) fan. I would say this message doesn't really fall into any of the categories, but what can you expect from an indie rock valedictorian?

I have also noticed that we all address our yearbook message recipients by name. To distinguish it from other messages in their own yearbook intended for someone else?

Julia,
I'm the priveleged [sic, yesssss, a flaw to her intellect!] first to sign your yearbook! I've always lusted after your shoes, y'know. It's too bad your evil Satanic imp of a boyfriend (just kidding) [I'm guessing she was at least partially not kidding] stole you away from us this year. Without you, cheese muffin loading before track meets wasn't the same. I hope you find happiness (and great shoes) wherever life takes you.
*heart* Courtney

The second is an all-encompassing, all-category affair from Kirk (barely, but category 4 was saved by inviting himself over to my pool). He was dating one of my best friends. Unfortunately this one isn't very anonymous because everyone knows exactly how many Kirks there were in our class.

Julia,
My friend, my Pal, My Love... Shhh! Don't tell Nika! (J.K.).
You are a really great person. You are always fun to be around and do stuff with. Nick is a good man and you should stay by his side. Over the summer you should invite me over and we'll go swimming in your pool. That would be fun! Don't hesitate to call or come visit me at UCLA. Good luck at UCSD and be sure to have lots of fun. See ya later! -Kirk

Well, that is all. I'm going to have to post some other non-yearbook-related-stuff soon, but will eventually resume this series and get to some of the gems. And, I promise you, I will soon break out the 8th grade quality well-wishes. AND, since Elaine asked, I am definitely going to plan a Dramatic Public Reading night.

Notes from a High School Yearbook.

Notes from a High School Yearbook.

I'm starting a new series here. Behold. Last night, I had some old high school friends over, and, somehow, my senior yearbook (1996) made an appearance. Eventually, we started reading the messages that people had written me out loud. Let me tell you, those are some fine works of poetry. We started on my high school boyfriend's message to me, but that one is far too golden to start with. You'll have to wait until we adequately warm up.

There were several themes in my yearbook and most of the messages seem to fit into those. Four, that I can count.

1. Comments about me being sweet, the #1 all time high school yearbook adjective, primarily from girls. These ones usually don't reference Nick at all, probably because (in retrospect) those girls usually weren't fans. Or in a small handful of cases (two?), I'm pretty sure they were in love with him themselves.
2. Comments or snarks about Nick, or even just well wishes.
3. Fabricated references to lewd acts, primarily from boys. And then a comment about Nick.
4. References to band and cross country. And/or my parents' pool.

I'm going to withhold the last names to protect the innocent. Spelling and grammar errors, however, will be maintained in the true documentary spirit.

I'm going to start with a Category 1 post. This is from Jess, who was a junior when I was a senior, and in my math class. She was probably, randomly (i.e., not in band/track/nick's friends), one of my closest friends that year, and it all began with that famous crayon note, which I undoubtedly still have. She was completely rad (tm 1996).

To my wonderful twin, Julia-

I think you're great! This is not some cheesy, insincere message, this is totally 100% I love you message. I think you are the coolest and I am so glad that you think that of me as well. I can remember that first time in math when you looked sad and I wrote you a pretty crayon note asking me [sic] not to think I was strange and that began the legacy - there was the CIF locker, the x-mas locker, miscellaneous math notes, tent party, and then coco's. Oh, and swimming in your pool and running into you at Top of the Cove oh and our homecoming picture. I really like spending time with you - you're so sweet and nice and complementary [sic, maybe, unless she was being profound] and understanding. And besides, you're blond - who can go wrong w/ that. I am so glad you aren't really leaving because I look forward to tons of stuff in the future with you like bagels & milkshakes. Just in case you lose it (which you won't) [which I did]: 675-####.
I LOVE YOU!
-Jess

AWESOME. My favorite part, and this seems to happen a lot in yearbooks, was when she started to try to list the inside jokes, but then the sentence kind of fell flat or the things really weren't that unique. I have no idea what "and then coco's" means. Maybe we had bagels and milkshakes at a Coco's restaurant?

Oh, damn it, I almost can't stop. I had to literally close the book lest I just type them all up right now.

p.s., Stay sweet.

Six Years.

Six Years.

Six years ago this month (a few days ago to be precise), I started this little blog. I'm kind of amazed and proud that I have stuck with it so long.

Every year I remember to blog about the anniversary I probably warn everyone to PLEASE GOD DO NOT GO BACK AND READ THOSE EARLY POSTS because they are seriously, undeniably awful posts and I can hardly recognize the person writing that stuff. But I can tell you're going to do it anyway, especially now that I've forbidden it. I'm still mourning the loss of the first two years of comments, too.

I guess when I really think about it and deconstruct why I have kept this up, it's because I am happy and thankful to have this website in my life. It's seen me through a lot, and looking back, I'm pretty sure there have been a few times that this blog has written me.

Iron and Wine

Iron and Wine

Last week, Erik and I joined Tessa and Chris to go to a concert! Live music! We saw Iron & Wine, and The Swell Season (the Once movie peeps). It was incredible. Iron and Wine opened (!!), a mostly solo set, and he was, as usual, absolutely stunning. His music, his remarkably lyrical imagery, and his voice, literally filled the place and my entire self and soul, beginning with the first few words of his first song. (Which! I had never heard before. It turns out it is a somewhat hard-to-find B side and will post the lyrics for you in a minute.)

We all assumed that The Swell Season would pale in comparison, but they held their own, differently. But maybe it was just because time was passing since Iron and Wine's opening song. Tessa and Chris will tell you that Glen Hansard's seriously neurotic storytelling skills kind of ruined things a bit, but I still really liked their set. What I did not like was all those scantily dressed older women having the same taste as me. And also two particular scantily dressed older women stage dancing, but I am trying to repress that so it won't be discussed.

But back to Iron and Wine. You should know that I have only ever posted the lyrics to one full song in its entirety before, and it was another Iron and Wine song, the amazing Upward Over the Mountain. I tread very carefully with the lyric spewing on here, so trust me on this. It starts out so simply and universally but then weaves itself through this complex path of interconnected images and I think, most significantly, death. Sam Beam, I swear, he is my favorite poet. Also, as an aside, my next trick will be to count the appearance of dog-related imagery in his songs.

But, this song stole the entire night, and I was reminded of it in particular this afternoon amidst a particularly hefty dose of nostalgia. Nostalgia is so intense to me, reflecting on lives and loves lost or given away. It sometimes consumes me. Not the people, not the actual things that happened, but dealing with my memories, processing what the relationships, the friendships, the love, the hurt, the everything... what it all has changed in me, and who I am in its stead.

Read, listen, whatever:

THE TRAPEZE SWINGER.
-Iron and Wine

Please remember me happily by the rosebush laughing
With bruises on my chin, the time when we counted every black car passing
Your house, beneath the hills, and up until someone caught us in the kitchen
With maps, a mountain range, a piggy bank, a vision too removed to mention...

Please remember me fondly, I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then they went on to say that the pearly gates had such eloquent grafitti
Like "we will meet again" and "fuck the man" and "tell my mother not to worry"
The angels with their gray handshakes, always done in such a hurry...

Please remember me, on Halloween, making fools of all the neighbors
Our faces painted white, by midnight we'd forgotten one another
And when the morning came I felt ashamed, only now it seems so silly
That season left the world and then returned but now you're lit up by the city...

Please remember me mistakenly in the window of the tallest tower
Call and pass us by but much too high to see the empty road at happy hour
Gleam and resonate just like the gates around the holy kingdom
With words like "lost and found" and "don't look down" and "someone save temptation..."

Please remember me as in the dream we had as rug-burned babies
Among the fallen trees but fast asleep aside the lions and the ladies
Who call you what you like and even might give a gift for your behavior
A fleeting chance to see the trapeze swinger high as any savior...

Please remember me, my misery, and how it lost me all I wanted
The dogs that love the rain and chasing trains, the colored birds above their running
In circles 'round the well, near where it spells on the wall behind St. Peters
So bright on cinder gray with spraypaint "who the hell can see forever?"

Please remember me seldomly in the car behind the carnival
My hand between your knees you turned from me and said the trapeze act was wonderful
But never meant to last, the clowns that passed saw me just come up with anger
And filled with circus dogs, the parking lot, had an element of danger...

Please remember me finally and all my uphill clawing
My dear, if I make the pearly gates I'll do my best to make a drawing
Of God and Lucifer, a boy and girl, an angel kissing on a sinner
A monkey and a man, a marching band, all around a frightened trapeze swinger

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raVzi_y6XWI
(I know, I know. TOPHER GRACE is smirking right at you the whole time. At least Dennis Quaid is mid-life-angsting at the ground.)