Last Week's Report
Last week was a bust—I got sick and did only half the work I was trying to do. Sweat and shivered all of Monday night. Stayed home Tuesday and let my hair turn into nest for small animals. Didn’t care.
In the case that you're concerned, I'm better now, ’cept for a lingering cough. The phlegm—it abides.
In other news, the cherry trees have popped and the sunlight's streaming down all the time and you're always finding yourself in these situations where you're hanging out in your shirt sleeves doing summertime-style shit with cumulonimbus clouds of pale-pink flower petals floating in the trees above you.
Been Thinking
Did y'all notice the rain's back? It's okay. It's only February. It's only water. Last week's epic global-warming weather, though, or the February fakeout, or whatever it was, got me thinking about this one camping trip last summer and how I want to go back to there. Soon. As soon as possible, really.
The spot's at the beach up on a little hillside—a hideaway from such things as people and wind. To the west: the Pacific ocean and then Japan.
It's where we staggered up a dune and watched the sun disappear. It's where I tucked my tent into this magnificent tree grove and then popped my air mattress on a branch. It's where we abandoned the fire to roam the beach in the dark, discovering how bioluminescent algae made our steps glow in the wet sand. It's where I kicked the dog out of the tent due to mouth breathing and he never even wandered off—just lay there on guard all night as dictated by the primal purpose of his species and breed. It's where, the next morning, we woke up thirsty and hungover—but then pooled the rest of our water to make everyone a cup of coffee.
Favorites 2.18.15
Sloans: A dive bar on Northeast Russell. Old Portland magic. Cheap drinks, grandma's-house decor, rad rock-and-roll pedigree. They let our buds' bands play right there in the dining room! I hope it doesn't get bought out and replaced by a new Portland hipster bar with antlers and edison lights everywhere.
The Gone-Away World, by Nick Harkaway: Hilarious post-apocalyptic existentialism. I'm not a rabid sci-fi nerd, but Nick Harkaway's my guy.
The first 5-7 seconds after you wake up in the morning: Before you tip toe off to the shower—before you even have a single thought. Before you remember about your life, all the ways you blew it and all the ways you made magic happen, all the things to look forward to and all the things to dread, all the fears, all the worries, all the wild happinesses. Before all that shit, when your mind's all empty like a newborn babe.
A concrete backyard miniramp: Fuck a lawn, anyway.
The Heart Turned Sideways Is An Arrow
For Valentine's Day, a pair of lovely visitors from the Bay Area. A clutch distraction from such things as heart-shaped balloons.
Like Leonard says, "Let's not talk of love and chains and things we can't untie."
And so Tricia and Cairo swooped in just as I was devising an escapist's strategy to the Feb 14 holiday. They bought me flowers. They drank morning tea at my kitchen table, making the whole scene look decidedly cute. They surveyed waterfalls and caught sweeping wilderness views with me. They joined me for tacos. They drove when I'd drank too much.
The sun was out the entire time and the dog was happier than he'd been in weeks. Truth: Spring is coming, and rad functional couples like T and C really do exist. Ain't life grand?!
Tippy tops.