my bosom-est buddy [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)] and i had an adventure.
step I: art history final project, chose an artistic style and complete an art project of some form or another in the chosen style. the chosen style: pre raphiaelite. she needed a long neck, big nose and a supply of ophelia-dead-in-the-water dresses. she called me.
step II: i dug out this old wedding dress and completed the walk of shame from my apartment to her car, i saw this friend i used to work at starbucks with, but she didn't recognize me, and i didn't want to call attention to my atypically renaissance fair self.
step III: the rose garden. we pretended we were taking lame senior pictures, or sad solo wedding shots. where's the groom? he isn't here, he isn't here.
step IV: result
taken by Vanessa Kauffman
there may or may not be more of these, depending on my fickle posting moods when i get the rest...
step V: drove to PNCA, picked up her roommate, then we hit the thai food. i looked very homeschool-meets-the-big-city.
vanessa and i however, have a history of awkward photography in public places. not public exposure weird, but just...awkward. case in point:
Dead in Portland
Air green but not warm, sunset kisses the blacktop and i set out for my solitary adventure only to find myself with cigarette fingers watching a man lug his cello towards the symphony. grief, so powerful it strips my breath of lungs.
five men came between you and i, five degrees of separation. who would have thought that possible? orin, then bob and jake, tom and finally scott. two metropolises, seattle and portland, two futures finally untwined.
"i just don't know what he wants...I can't believe you did that...I just couldn't handle you...We're doing good...We're doing really well."
it has taken me over a year to really start to miss you. this feeling arises, a somewhat needy, always codependent vine in the middle of my meticulously ordered museum of a life. i internalize the words of men long dead, events long settled, a language only spoken in mottos. i haven't the time or the energy to devote to morning what we once had, a friendship which we both felt transcended the finicky lines of "friendship". and we were somewhat wrong. our perfect friendship self destructed on a violent afternoon, somewhat like this one, sun and wind between our anger and tears, in the pike place market, behind where i worked.
and yet: you understood what i was afraid of, and you placed your strong body, and your big hands (we used to laugh about your hands, man hands we called them) between me, and what i feared. you're obsessively clean apartment, the love almanac with you and melissa in the park. melissa was dating giuseppe, whose tattooed forehead creased as he told me i was beautiful, delicious in fact, but none of my friends heard it under the hum of the espresso machine and indecision at coffee messiah. we kept coming there long after melissa and giuseppe went south to san fransisco, we drew stares from the spiked and studded regulars, industrial complexes--all of them, and usually that would be enough to defeat me, but you were resilient and brave.
and i smothered.
i did something like sitting outside and hoped the soft sun would sink into my skin and linger me softer. i feel like a rattlesnake, all eyes and fangs and husk-like tail, which i twitch while i pick fights with restless irritation.
i have this great-aunt, and when i was younger i was convinced she was some kind of reptile. i think because she informed me when i was too young to know better that she was cold blooded, meaning, cold all the time. i'd watched enough nature programs by the time i was six to know that cold blooded generally meant reptile (i don't think the term "cold blooded killer" had been introduced to me yet, i can only speculate on the kind of semantically induced fear that term would have caused). so i put two and two together and suddenly i had a reptillian aunt, an image which has remained with me up into [if you can call this] adulthood. i have a hard time, conceptually, with the notion that my great-aunt is a mammal like the rest of us, just like i still have conceptual diffeculties with islands as the tips of undersea mountains. islands should float. they should exist as strange, hollow rock formations, bobbing six inches into the water, held in place by something other then Newtonian physics. when informed otherwise, i tend to end the discussion quickly with "whatever, science is just a social construct" and return to my post modern chair to sulk.
such is life: no more reptile related anecdotes.
The week as a year.
Monday: started classes. the beginning of the term is a sweet relief from the implications inherent in hours and hours of free time: accomplish something, accomplish something, you have all this time, accomplish something. Spring term means I will have three months to avoid confronting my dry-brain dead of inspiration. Three classes have stayed the same, the same all year, Latin (endless translations and ridiculing the Romans), my honors class (Professor: instead of Ondine, lets meet in the Honors Building...theres a family of racoons in the attic. Brian: I call the couch! Tess: I'll bring my guitar!), and US History in the 20th century ( each day I organize the people in this class into the Secret Society of the Green Shirts vs. the Secret Society of the Blue Shirts. Who are your leaders? What are you here for? If I wear a green shirt will you let me join?). I then attempted to supplement my education with a History of Philosophy Class: the Ancients. The professor is a private college transplant jackass who showed us slides of his grandson and dog. He asked us to write out one reason he should remember us, I wrote: I am exceptionally intellegent, pretentious and irritating. I dropped the class, go figure. Instead I'm taking a sociology class on minorities. Its like a vacation.
Monday: I moved. I abandoned green fields for asphalt and the belt of the milky way for city lights. I moved up two flights of stairs and into an apartment of the campus of my institution of higher learning, Portland State. How I live half a block away from said family of racoons in the Honors Building, I watch industrious people working late in the library, if i lean out my window I can watch the jocks practicing in the athletic field. They are like another species. I have hardwood floors, a gas stove, freedom and a city. As for the move proper, I managed to keep much of my temper inside, except for an occasional outburst, mostly directed towards my brother. After all, what are younger brothers for if not emotional punching bags? Before she went home my mother bought us champagne, which went four ways in two wine glasses and two tea cups between my boyfriend, my best friend, another friend, and myself.
Monday: I was sick.
Tuesday: I was sicker. My water didn't want to turn hot for several hours. I don't know why but my attitude turned defeatist quickly. What restless demon drove you, oh convalescent, from your parents warm watered house and all the friendly cats? I kept looking askance at inanimate objects and thinking they were imbued with four legs and both capacity and desire to sit in my lap.
Wednesday: I felt somewhat better. I enjoyed the luxury of getting up at seven and trotting cross campus to Latin at seven forty-five as opposed to the five AM version. Suffered a severe setback on the domestic front: first meal cooked in new apartment was a failure.
Thursday: I went running along the waterfront. I run faster when I have other runners to outrun, not to mention bicycles, walkers and people lying in the grass. I managed to vanquish the walkers and people lying in the grass, however Emily vs. bicycle speed battle consistantly went the way of the bicycle.
Thursday Night: My bosom-est buddy and I walked and walked, with no direction and no need.
Friday: I felt young and interesting in the warm night, with the wind in my hair and uncomfortable shoes killing my feet. Never complain, never give in, your stride is so much longer then mine, I will keep up. Between pockets of artificial daylight, past tables of people eating outside. Late. There was this girl sitting with two adults, I'm assuming they were her parents, at a table outside of Jakes. Her face was boredom and I remembered what that was like, dressed up and sitting with my parents in restaurants, desperately hoping the host/hostess would seat my One True Love in the next table over. It was like looking at myself, at fifteen or sixteen and I wonder if that girl went home and listened to Prokofiev, closed her eyes and faded out, half hypnotized, into a story she unfolded in her head. Hopefully she has more of a life then what I did.
I couldn't take the competition.
two circles now stand completed. odd. my life as a ring structure. a chiastic assembly of previously unrelated events. i don't believe this way. i much more prefer the woman a friend once told me about, four AM and the dying hours of a party, screaming senseless and drunk into a lamp. she is more a summation of my existence then a burned out literary structure. but here you have it, i am back to where i started from.
and what was in between? i fell in love with a city, thats what was in between. i went back this spring break, i went back and paced the streets as if i never left. i half expect to run into my younger, irritating but far more fun self walking home from her job, lost in her elaborate imaginings, creating a fairy tale from significant glances and overpass-vertigo. no such luck however, i walked down through the rain with my sister, down past the coffee shops and record stores where i spent too much money. as long as familiar faces pass me on their way up the hill, and familiar places beckon with old memories of good and bad, my city can change but it cannot forget me. not yet. but i am fading out, a polaroid in reverse, imprinting instead on a new place, new streets with new memories.
this is what happens when one spends a morning reading one's diarys. melancholy self absorbtion. bleh.
finals have ended and its like my mind has exploded into all this free time [i agonized over what word to use, "brain" or "head" or "mind". "mind" always takes me to an uncomfortable cartesian mind/body split, however "brain"s are messy and "head" is so passe. why is "head" passe? think about it, "head" has whored itself out to all kinds of different phrases: you can give head, have your had in the gutter, wear headphones, headsets, have headaches, make headway, headstones and be headstrong. you conflict between head and heart etc. granted you can be mind boggled and have a certain mindset, however "mind" has yet to be included in a sex act, unless you count the dead prez song "mind sex" which, frankly, i don't because it puts a hole in my arguement. and i reserve the right to academic blindness. plus, "my mind" has a nice sound to it, the "mmm mmm"]
i detoured for two days and at last, when i was all alone in my room, i oscillated between being lonely and being very happy to be alone. i put away my clothes. i sat on my floor, then i lay in my bed. and, having nothing better to do, i began to dream.
flight. not necessarily the souring, all encompasing and fatal icarus flights but more a suffocating, air grabbing struggle to stay aloft. and then i'd manage, and i'd float for a few seconds before sinking again, like drowning in air. but it was so beautiful, mountains and an old stone fortress under the moon and falling snow. i was anxious in my dream because my people were at war and i was either trying to flee the enemy or flee my people to join the enemy, i'm kind of favoring the latter as the most accurate. so, traitor that was, i suppose it served me right to dangle in the air above some snow shiny meadow for the greater part of my REM sleep.
then i dreamed i was hiding from some nameless evil in a grocery store. fred meyers, to be exact.
my once and future best friend and i used to roam around fred meyers, just two canby kids getting our kicks from arranging fake fruit in or on various cooking implements ie. microwaves, toasters or plates. and sometimes it wasn't fake fruit, sometimes we utilized the substantial faux flowers section, which was right next to the fake fruit. the ideal was always for someone to come upon a microwave filled with ivy, and maybe a red pepper. i don't think we were ever after a particular response from the viewer; like true artists, it was a pepper in a microwave for its own sake, take from it what you will.
to be honest, i doubt we were that sophisticated or pretentious at seventeen.
Hello my name is kipple. I'm new to elowel.