Living a Class 3 Existence

I love four-tens.  4-tens.  Four/10s.  Whatever grammatically-challenged way I can express it, I will.  My summer schedule totally rocks.

Last last weekend, as mentioned, started at the Oregon Country Fair.  After that was over, I unfurled my Oregon map and did some quick calculations:  1.5 more days off.  2 hours back home to Portland.  2 hours to Sisters, OR – home of Suttle Lake and a little piece of my heart.  What to do, what to do?

I went East.  The geographical opposite of what my heart usually tells me to do, but in this case it was the right decision.  I watched the clouds slowly dissipate as I drove, and the dirt on the shoulders of the road slowly turn volcanic red.  The air began to smell like Ponderosa, and man, I was home.

I spent a sunny, windy day by the swampy lakeshore, getting my first mosquito bites of the season.  I broke in my National Parks Pass (oh yeah, discounted camping!) and set up my tent like clockwork.  The lake was, as always, frigid.  But quite pleasant if you stayed in long enough to go numb.  I feel buoyed up in that lake like nowhere else.  Held, cradled by that water like a third parent.  And the geese and the fish and damselflies and the birds of prey far overhead all seem a part of that green, slow-motion dance.  Last summer when I was here with my parents, Mom laughed at me for reading Swamp Thing while bobbing over the small waves on an air mattress.  But (to digress nerdily), Swamp Thing is about a consciousness connecting to the web of life in a very visceral way.  It is a horror comic, so yeah, sometimes people turn into masses of insects.  And yeah, sometimes people are disemboweled and/or dragged to Hell.  But it has a good message!  You know, for kids!

Anyway.  That was last last weekend’s body of water.  This past weekend’s was much rougher, much more alien and unpredictable: the new, slightly dangerous friend-of-a-friend who takes charge of the whole evening’s plans when you’re already a bit tipsy and dazed.  I had to learn to take my fear in hand and just ride with it.

An old friend is spending his summer as a rafting guide on the Deschutes River, so again after work on Saturday, I saddled up and headed to the high desert: the tiny town of Maupin, OR.  This town (whose numbered streets go all the way up to 6^th) includes nine separate river guide companies, and in the summer, these guides are a visible, vibrant, sizable slice of the population.  I was lucky enough to arrive into town the night when they were celebrating (for some reason) New Year’s Eve.  The warm night saw a rather impressive homemade laser lights show, and a rather unimpressive ball drop, though there were treats inside, piñata-style, so that made up for it.  Good, friendly, generous people.  Good dancers.

Not knowing Justin’s work schedule, I had mentally prepared myself for a day or so of hanging out by the river, hearing yarns of one gnarly experience after the other and working on adding some color to my blindingly white skin.  But a friend of his volunteered to take me out on the river, so suddenly I was fitted tightly into a life jacket, listening to a safety talk (including such advice as to how to hold the rope if you fall out of the boat), and shoving off.

What?  Really?  …What was that about falling out of the boat? 

I was nervous.  Wildlife gamboled on the banks, the river moved steadily but unhurridly, my fellow paddlers were all able-bodied (and had done this as a family outing numerous times), but still.  The sight of those first white-frothed eddies and I had to remind myself to breathe. 

Forward!  Backward!  Take a break!  and (my favorite): Hold on!  This was the extent of the instruction we were to follow, which is good, because I don’t know if my mind could have processed anything more.  It made it easier for us to move as a whole boat, despite the enthusiasm of the man in front of me, who seemed to translate Keep paddling! as an invitation to paddle like a maniac with no cadence whatsoever.  Chill, man, really.  We got wet.  We were tossed around.  We did that cheesy high-five with the paddles.  We all stayed in the boat, and at one point nosed off of a rapid/waterfall at such an angle that it swamped the boat something fierce, and our guide had to hop up and down to encourage the water to flow out of the strategically-placed holes in the edge of the vinyl bottom.  I even got to “ride the bull”: I sat on the front of the boat with my toes skimming the waves, holding onto a rope and hoping hoping hoping that the rapids coming up weren’t too rough.  It was awesome, and I do feel accomplished.

You know the hardest part?  A little place called “The Ladder” or “Swimmer’s Rapids.” (All the features seemed to have multiple names, including one rapid that was both “Devil’s hole” and “Basket of fuzzy kittens,” though I suspect that was just to see who would end up calling it that.)  This was a series of large but gentle waves that cascaded to a calm eddy in the bend of the river.  We pulled the boat over there and walked back up the bank to a spot right above the first large wave.  Then, one by one, we jumped feet first into the water (one hand holding the nose, the other clamped on the life jacket – for comfort more than safety).  The cold squeezed you immediately, as your lifejacket lifted you back to the surface by the armpits.  Your job was to hold off taking that instinctive inhalation (in order to swear loudly) until you had reached the surface of the water.  Once your soggy head bobbed up and you could spit, wipe your eyes and get your bearings, your next job was to point your feet downstream and pathetically wave your arms as if you were steering yourself, when really the river was taking you where it wanted.  It was a mini roller-coaster, an adrenaline shot that was intoxicating enough to make me walk the bank a second time and leap again into the cold surprise - though I still had to take a moment to talk myself into it once I got there.

I have this bruise now - diagonal across my left shin.  I’m not sure if it’s from trapeze (wrapping my leg tightly around the rope) or from me shoving my feet under the inflatable seat in front of me on the raft.  It might be some chimerical marriage of the two, and I’m damn proud of it.  The cadre of guides (young, athletic, and tanned but for the ghostly white Z-shape of their sandal straps across the tops of their feet) and I played sand volleyball later, and that led to more scrapes and tiny cuts.  My arms and legs are patchworks of light yellow and purple (still on a background of lily pale, dammit), and I love it.  I can’t wait to go back.

New weekend, new adventure, please!

Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

(Actually, it was more like a knee to the temple, but pretty much, yeah.)

A couple weeks ago at acrobatics and trapeze class, I was spotting someone's handstand when they lost their balance and tumbled.  I'm happy I was there to keep them from landing on their head, but they kind of landed on mine instead.  Exciting!  I'm fine, and only had a tender spot the day or so after when I'd try to rest my head in my hand to look interested when anyone was having a conversation with me.

However, this was the same day when we unexpectedly lost a longtime educator from the OMSI staff (a total surprise to me, at least) and a day after I nearly ran a red light for absolutely no reason.  I still can't figure that out: I wasn't tired or upset or distracted by any phone, object, multi-dog-walking pedestrian, really awesome billboard or what-have-you.  I was headed home after work and all I can remember about the incident is thinking, "Hmm.  Those other cars should be stopping."  Nope.  That red's for you, dear.

So a shaky and shook-up beginning to the week necessitated a complete release at the end.  And after work on Saturday, I hopped in a half-full car, more haphazardly "filled" than packed - kind of like a grocery sack done by the fourteen year old bag boy on his first shift of the summer.  Even in that disheveled state, Granny D made sweet time heading down through the sunset-colored valley to Shangri-La.  Valhalla.  Avalon.  The Oregon Country Fair.

Mmmmmm... Ahhhhh...  It was, as always, a completely transporting experience.  Fairies, hippies, pirates, vagrants, circus folk - with music in their blood and twigs in their hair - all congregate for one glorious weekend a year in the otherwise tiny town of Veneta, Oregon.  It's a different world entirely: the last time I went, my car was directed to its parking spot by a cheerful bearded man in a tutu calling out to all, 

"Welcome home!  Welcome home!"

Beautiful.  This time I got to camp on nearby land thanks to the distantly-related generosity of my excellent housemate's boyfriend's cousin, who was working security at the campground there.  At night, you could hear the revelry continue in the wooded Fairgrounds, but we hippie have-nots were on the other side of the fence, and had to make do with our own smaller drum circle, overpriced foodcarts and hemp-jewelry-weaving artisans.  But the bonfire was warm, the band was high, the hayfield campsites were mown.  There were so many stars.  I'd forgotten, living in the city!  Even the last time I camped, I hadn't noticed so many.  I'm thankful in my life for the times when I can crane my head back and get woozy with the scope of it all.

So Krista (excellent housemate!) and I wandered meandering paths all day, eating delicious vegan coconut frozen treats-on-a-stick, witnessing all manner of invented musical instruments, passing parades formal and spontaneous, and getting progressively covered with layer upon layer of dust and sunscreen.

Late in the day, we reluctantly exited.  And treading the dusty flag-framed path into the sunset, I got a little teary.  I’m man enough to admit it: I cried.  Prickly, bittersweet tears that there was So Much Good.  And I realized (as my hands, of their own accord, cradled my middle) that what my own tutu-clad self was feeling was a sense of BellyHappy that I haven’t felt for a very long time: comforted and magical, borne on imagination and the kindnesses of strange strangers.  Free hugs.   

Yes Yes Yes.

Coming up next: “As the Sailor Said, quote: ‘Ain’t that a hole in the boat?’”

I want to ride my BICYCLE

I had the most Portlandy day today!  Strawberry/blueberry/raspberry picking (passing by the vaunted local lineage of the Marionberry et al.); playing with a friendly Riley dog on a Sauvie's Island beach, turning my lily white skin a bit pink.  Beer and Thai food on the porch reading the Portland Mercury.  Taking my potential new bike to get it checked out at the bike co-op.  Big contented sigh.  That last, though, is giving me some anxiety.  Namely: I want to ride my bike.  Really and truly.  But I have Absolutely No Idea What I'm Doing.

I grew up in the 'burbs of Portland - the West Hills, to be precise, and they are quite hilly (Art Alexakis can back me up on this).  Except hanging out with my elementary best friend Alice, riding in her (even hillier) neighborhood, I didn't really ride.  My street was rough, and I was too wimpy and afraid of skinning my knees, elbows, nose, etc.  I had a pair of rollerblades (score!) that I preferred, and even for that I was padded and helmeted and strapped in within an inch of my life.  I learned to ride sans training wheels embarrassingly late... long story short, I have no knowledge, no skills and no confidence to back me up.

After talking with a very nice tattooed lady at the bike shop about the various repairs my hand-me-down might need in the short and long term, I had to ask her to show me how to put air in my tires.  Sigh.  And a chagrined one this time, not a contented one.  It's embarrassing.  Especially in this town, I feel like I should have at least a working knowledge of this stuff... but no.  I know the gears slip on my bike, but I don't know how or when I'm supposed to be shifting gears anyway, so it doesn't really matter!  I'm going to look like a fool during this uphill (Ugh.) learning process.  And I'm okay with that.  But a whole lot of people are going to be exposed to the vast plains of my ignorance, since I'm going to be asking all the bike nerds I know for help (Hi guys!).  Do I repair or sell this bike and buy a newer/better/shorter one?  If I repair, what should I do first?  How tall should my bike be?  What kind of lock should I get?  Are my helmets awesome enough?  Tell me what to do!

Lurking under all this is my childhood fear and nervousness of falling off said bike.  I'm not as elastic as I was as a kid, and I am paying my own health insurance now.  I'd prefer not to break my first bone commuting down Stark St. to OMSI (although I suppose it has to happen sometime).  After visiting the co-op today, I puttered around side streets in my neighborhood and around the blacktop at the nearby elementary school.  There were a couple moments when I lost my balance for a split second - I could feel my muscles seize, my breath catch and adrenaline flash through my body.  Then I got it back, stayed upright and everything was fine.  But those moments are intimidating just plain scary.  They make me feel like I'm seven years old again, and all the courage I mustered in the past year, all the stalwart pressing on through the big life changes just evaporates.

If I did fall and scrape myself up, I don't think I'd cry.  But I probably would like a popsicle.

The Tying Up of Loose Ends

For those who have been on tenterhooks (1. noun, historical: a hook used to fasten cloth on a drying frame or tenter.  2. phrase: in a state of suspense or agitation because of uncertainty about a future event) about certain parts of my life, a brief epilogue:

The beach was... unspeakably fantastic.  Day 1 - Good camp site, gorgeous weather inducing planned beer buzz AND slight sunburn (yes!!).  And banana boats* in the fire for dessert - what the hell kind of Girl Scout am I that I never had these before now?  Day 2 -  Totally posh hotel with jacuzzi on the deck.  A whole afternoon laying in warm water, watching the ocean.  The soggiest, toe-pruniest, best day I've had in a while.  Day 3 - Driving home a different and surprisingly speedy route, seeing new scenery and talking things through with myself.  What a weekend - not a single mosquito bite.  I'm pretty sure I dreamed the whole thing.

Our House... really is in the middle of our street.  And that street is off of Burnside.  This is it - this is where I've moved to, at least through Septemberish.  (With the friendly Alaskans, if you're curious.)

If you do click around on the Google street view, please don't be misled by the boarded up business across the street.  That's now a rockin', live-music-having, signature-spicy-sauce-serving wing restaurant.  Also I live within walking distance of a decent bar and a dive bar, two karaoke places, a comics shop and a fabric store.  Hello again, voluntary poverty!  So nice to see you so soon.  My housemates are great, even though I've been a ghost of a roommate - working long hours, house/dogsitting and going on vacation since I've "moved in."  My bed has a feather top, my closet has room enough for me to stand inside (barely), and my wall has a GIANT Hollenbeck-style calendar of the next two months of summer.  Everything's comin' up roses.

Trapeze class!... is silly and terrifying and inspiring, by turns.  This past Wednesday I actually stood up on top of the trapeze bar and felt my first frisson of fear in the whole process.  Hanging upside down by my hands and knees, then just my knees, had been no problem for me.  Balancing on top of someone else, or having someone else balance on me?  Grounding.  Safe.  The same kind of hippie skin-to-skin human reassurance gained from the Dance of Peace or contact improv.  But all on my own in the air, holding on with two fists where the ropes meet the large, sturdy carabiner was enough to make my breath come shallower and me rethink my position on so many things.  But back on the ground, rubbing chalk all over my hands for how silky and unreal it makes them feel (always ignoring how dry and brittle it makes them feel later), I can breathe easy again, and cheer on my classmates, and look around and realize we're all a bunch of "adults" practicing how to do handstands.  I could take my new-found knowledge and be the hit of the local playground - that's the level of success I'm aiming for here.  This is after only three classes.  Who knows what muscle groups I'll discover that I can make sore next time?

Einstein... is alive and kicking.  Well, the Man Himself is quite dead - his body resting in New Jersey, his brain in pieces in jars (true and gross) and his photographic self perpetually sticking his tongue out at some unknown photographer.  But in exhibit form, Einstein is doing quite well.  Working four ten-hour days (which is to be my regular summer schedule) is so far strange and empowering.  I overlap with my coworker/supervisor only one day per week, and the rest of the time am left alone to my own devices and judgment - scheduling and instructing volunteers, networking with other departments, planning and running demos for the public.  It's not absolute power, so I'd guess I'm only being corrupted partially.  Say, 63%.  It feels like an unexpected promotion - one of those with a change in title, an increase in responsibility, and not much else.  I don't mean to complain: I don't mind, and I don't feel put-upon.  The process of opening an exhibit when I never had before and wasn't sure if I could was an excellent professional experience.  And I even bollocksed up my main task in the process (volunteer scheduling), and the world hasn't come crashing down.  Actually, things are going pretty well in The Wonderful World of OMSI.  Next new exhibit opens in about 3 months.  I'll be ready.

*12-Step Banana Boats

Ingredients/Equipment: Banana.  Aluminum foil.  Chocolate chips, 

peanuts, cocoanut, granola, other delicious sprinkle-able things.

• Step 1: Peel one strip of peel off the concave side of the banana, but leave it attached at one end.
• Step 2: Scoop out some, but not all of the banana with a spoon so you have a boat-shape. (Get it?)
• Step 3: Fill the hollow in the banana with delicious sprinkle-able things.
• Step 4: Eat the banana scoopings and the delicious sprinkle-able things that fell out of the banana boat.  Dream about how much tastier this will all be when it's warm and gooey.
• Step 5: Lay the strip of peel back over the banana and delicious sprinkle-able things.
• Step 6: Wrap the whole dang thing in aluminum foil.
• Step 7: Nestle it lovingly in the hot coals of a campfire.
• Step 8: Stare at the campfire for a while and forget about everything else.  That's a good fire.
• Step 9:  Rotate the banana boats so the other side of it gets lovingly nestled in the coals, too.
• Step 10: Take 'em out after 10 minutes or more, let 'em cool on the side of the fire.
• Step 11: Unwrap and nom.  Beware leakage of hot banana boat fluids.  I'm just saying.
• Step 12:  Recycle your aluminum foil!  Compost your peel!  Drown your campfire!  It's the right thing to do.

My brain my brain

So tired.  Einsteined out.  Second of three 12-hour days at work, with thankfully a beach camping weekend to look forward to.  I am excited about the exhibit, though - today I gave a demonstration about the speed of light to a bunch of OMSI board members, corporate sponsors, volunteers and highfalutin media folk.  I gave a brief radio interview about Einstein to a potentially conservative-leaning station (in which I just happened to describe the nature of science as a "constantly evolving animal."  Just slipped out, what can I say) and I gently tried to dissuade a visitor from thinking that his experiences at the Oregon Vortex were relativity-related.  I feel eminently competent.

However.  As mentioned, so very tired.  I keep doing dumb things like saying the name of the person I'm talking to instead of the person I'm talking about; dropping letters (usually vowels, if that counts for anything) from words as I'm typing them; feeling generally sluggish and forgetful.  Last night I had a dream that I was at OMSI, wearing a combination cow costume/purple educator vest.  Other educators could dress up as vet techs or heart surgeons (in scrubs and reddish sweaters).  I was walking next to this teenage girl, and the fact that I was very enthusiastically trying to press upon her was:

"Did you know cows can't text?  Because of their hooves!"

"Sure, whatever."  She was totally disinterested.  And I can't blame her.  Hooves?  Honestly.

Now: seven hours sleeping, twelve hours working, seven hours sleeping, seven hours driving.  Then: sitting on a goddamn sunny beach getting a sunburn drinking a beer.  Oh yes.

Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite

I kind of can’t wait for my next cocktail party—or better yet, reunion.  I’ve read many a rousing adventure story and I understand their structure and tropes.  I can mold the Truth in my hands, cast it in plaster, build it out in spots and spin quite a yarn out of the past 12 months:

“Me?  Well for a while I was teaching children to read.  Then I traveled across the country a few times, was in the desert capturing rattlesnakes and exploring prehistoric structures, spent some time in the medical field, joined the circus, and currently I’m doing research into Relativity.”

Ha!  A shining tale, starring me: The Most Interesting Woman in the World.  But impressively, it’s all mostly true.  Even the circus part.  That’s right, friends!  All those times I’ve said,  
“I want to run away and join the circus!” 
weren’t just idle dreams.  No, that was career planning.

 Things are looking up

 

 What happened was this.  Way back in January when I was funemployed, a facebook friend posted a link to the temp agency in town that was hiring ushers for the Portland run of Cirque du Soleil’s Kooza.  I applied, and thanks to the fact that I look extremely reliable on paper, was called back very quickly.  I waited a couple months for the administrative Cirque team to get to town, then had a “group interview” – a grueling process during which we had to 1. Show up on time and 2. Wear all black (our “uniform”).  I can do both these things, though I did misplace my wallet and thus have no change for parking and therefore almost FAIL criteria #1, but a very kind woman on her smoke break outside her office building gave me meter money.  Thank you, wonderful stranger.  May you always have green lights when you are late.

At any rate, the depth of the interview process should have alerted me to the requirements of the job more so than any job description I was ever given.  Going through a temp company for a pool of workers with no technical requirements (we weren’t handling rigging or anything cool, unfortunately) produced a motley group of semi-employable folk from a variety of backgrounds and work experience.  “You’ll love it,” the Cirque supervisors and returning Cirque workers (called Followers because they travel – at their own expense – to the cities where Cirque is performing in order to do temp jobs) told us.  “You’ll make friends from all over.  You’ll bond.  You’ll party.  It’s like the theatre!”

That should’ve been my second clue.  I did high school theatre, and yes, I made some good friends there.  We became close quickly, in that intense intimacy that only long hours, shared makeup mirrors and teenage hormonal drama can engender.  But to be honest, I was also kind of a bitch then.  As a tiny girl in a position of authority (stage managing yet another motley crew in all black), I thought then I needed to Be Serious in order to Be Taken Seriously.  So there was No Messing Around on my stage.  (Unless it was done by my good friends and I was invited to join in.  Then, mischief aplenty!)

I still like to get actual work done when I’m in charge, but I’ve learned to use my tiny-girlness to my advantage as a supervisor: flirting my way through asking retired volunteers to improve their work ethic, allowing my goofiness and sarcasm to be part of presentations to large groups.  Whatever gets the job done – and I’ve learned that if people like me, they’re more likely to get the job done.  When it’s me on the front  lines, though, and I’m not toiling for a supervisor or organization I despise, I just can’t shake that Scandinavian WASPy work ethic.  I work smarter, and then sometimes harder.  When there is any kind of small-scale manual labor to be done (in Cirque’s case, putting inserts in programs and putting badges on lanyards), the spirit of Henry Ford starts acting through me, making mini-assembly lines and talking about conservation of movement.  Long story short, I’m a damn good worker, for no other reason than it feels better than half-assing it.  And I’ll be a happy cocker spaniel as long as I get an ear scratch or two from my supervisors.

The gritty world behind the scenes - where popcorn 

is ruthlessly segregated from the rest of the trash.

I would love to tell you that this dedication was immediately recognized by management, where it was  decided I could simultaneously climb the corporate ladder and the Big Top ladder, eventually becoming Cirque’s first Stage Manager/Aerialist.  But no.  I worked the Tapis Rouge, the lounge area where folks who paid over $250 for an adult ticket (uh huh) could get drinks and hors d’oeuvres before the show and tiny (incredibly delicious – the chef let me sneak one) bites of cheesecake on long skewers at intermission.  What did I do for this circus-going royalty?  Oh, pretty much what I’ve become adept at in public service positions: I stood unobtrusively with my hands clasped behind my back, smiling vaguely and staring into the middle distance.  Then I’d point out where the bathrooms were, and explain to the rabble that no, they  couldn’t come in to the fancy-pants tent, but they could purchase an upgrade for next time.  And during the show I sat on inflatable couches (real classy, but that’s a traveling show for you) and tried to read a  pocketbook or make a to-do list. Sometimes I colored.

I only worked a few times for Cirque because by the time they got here, I had a job that I was qualified for, and where I was more than a warm body who knew how to point to things in internationally inoffensive ways (the whole hand is safest – one finger can be considered rude).  So maybe I’m being unfair in judging the whole experience by my few evenings’ work.  I didn’t make lifelong friends; I didn’t party with contortionists; I didn’t pack up my life and carpool to Seattle to do the whole thing over again.  It wasn’t like The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus or Wings of Desire.  But I did learn how to lace up the flaps of a circus tent.  I did get to see the show for free.  I did peek into the practice tent, where I was told to stay quiet because “the Russians are having a meeting.”  I did get to be a part of something that is pretty impressive; that while not running entirely like clockwork, does a good job of bringing a fun time to people all over the country.
 

The circus is cool and all, but you just can't beat the perks at OMSI

And I was inspired to sign up for an adult Beginners Acrobatics and Trapeze class at my local aerialist studio.  My first class was on Wednesday.  I pulled and stretched and tumbled and flew a bit.  I'm still sore.  I can't wait to go back and get chalk dust all over myself again.  So, who knows?  Maybe with a couple years of practice, there’s a future for me in this after all.

Goonies Never Say Die

Sometimes I blog in my head, and then life moves on and I lose the momentum to tell people about it.  This is why it looks like in April I took one loooooooong nap, when really I was doin' some stuff.  Not that I remember what that stuff was, now, but I'm sure it was important at the time.

Last time I went to the dentist (again - April) was a tedious experience.  "Ah, looks like you haven't been flossing right here." "I have..."  "You know, when you brush you should start on your right side." "I do."  "Did you know you have a little imperfection in your enamel right--"  "I know!"

I have, I do, I know! Life has been kind of like that lately.  I'm unsettled and know I have to do things to change that, but I can't quite get the motivation to do so.  This whole My Journey thing got kind of muddled and misdirected.  When did Kirsten Valentine turn into this?  A character in a book I read recently described his maladies this way: "And I won't even mention my head... Solid cast iron!... simultaneously hollow and full of drafts: A great vestibule with poorly shut doors!"  Yup.  I welcome those drafts - the wind and I have always been friends.  And movement is SO preferable over sedentary cast iron!  (Despite its utility in making me iron-rich foods.)

So I’ve made a decision to be more selfish.  What? you say.  Even more selfish!  Is it possible?  Oh yes.  Step one is to shake up my housing situation.

It’s been great to live with Mom and Dad – how can I ever criticize kind people who love me and take care of me without my having to ask? My every need is met and then some; my mail shows up on my bed every afternoon, and sometimes a surprise box of animal crackers under my pillow.  But.  Rent-free and protected, safe and sound isn’t the challenge I need right now.

So I’m looking for shared housing on the East side of Portland. Closer to work, with fewer bridges and big giant hills to bike commute over.  (Bike commute?  Yep, that’s another challenge I’d like to set for myself.)  Houses of varying condition and class.  I have interviewed with: the industrious hippies, the quietly lonely cat lady, the untidy forty-year-old men, the veggie household with the food-stealing dog, the very 420-friendly hipsters, the very much in love lesbian couple, the friendly Alaskans, and the curt aspiring homeowner who didn’t want to repeat any information she had already posted on Craigslist.  All in a week.  It’s been quite a sociological and geographical journey.  And through it all, I’ve felt a lot more grown up than I have in recent memory.  I think it’s a good road I’m
on now, and I feel like I’m recovering from being stalled out.  Engine heart turn over, rumble purr.

Sunday, during a sunny long weekend at the beach, Mom and I climbed the Astoria Column – a very tall  monument at the top of a very tall hill in Astoria, OR.  For many folks there this was probably a casual, easy way to fill an afternoon.  But Mom is very afraid of heights, so she gripped the railing tight and stopped on every available landing, and made people go past her, all the way up 164 steps.  Out on the balcony at the very top, she clung to the too-smooth concrete side of the big pillar as other folks gaily peered down over the railing and launched balsa wood airplanes purchased from the gift shop.  She told me on the way back down, “You know, I thought, ‘If Dad can do chemo, I can do this.’”  Yeah.  And if she can do that, then I can do this new house thing.  I won’t say I’m not hesitant, nervous.  But it’s about time that something good and tough in my life knocked me out of the daily groove I’ve been wearing into the ground.  A good fear, a manageable one.  A kickstart and a shove in the right direction.