Newest legion of arctic explorers trail the Northwest Americas…

Headlines for our unimproved weather conditions -or- hey, the snow is awful high. Pedestrian suffering continues, climbing slippery ice mounds where sidewalks once were. I am terribly irritated, what is to be done for the less mobile populous? Brought to tears at the sight of wheelchair bound citizens and woot-ing for the elderly who take great bounds from possible curbs to bus doors. The season of wet pant bottoms and fluctuating fevers, has taken more convictions in its wake today. Snow day as it is properly called, kept me home without a fight, though it appears to have been a premature decision. The puddles grow quick, blinding sun rays shamelessly peering. I long for rain boots and frothed soymilk in large porcelain tea cups. Until next year with my luck, at least I have Belle & Sebastian. xoxo for Tigermilk.

What if I had a confession to make?

What if I told you that our chance meetings and awkward conversations were near painful to me? And if I told you this, what would it mean? I hear your voice, grazing the paragraph before me, waiting. Your voice is a ghost, you are that far from my emotional grasp. I feel the faint whispers of black hair, I smell the sweet dampness of your interiors and I realize that we are not best friends. I can’t say these things, everything comes out tangled, released in palpitations rather than breaths. All I know is that something is missing and I can’t seem to find it. But then, as curious as you are- nothing remains a secret for long.

The evasive nature of complaining about the weather…

Not that I mind, the complaining that is. I often discuss matters that I have no intention of settling with immediate solutions. Rather that one is better suited in the future for making such decisions when one has verbally riddled that something out. A week with visitations is indeed a better one; Paige was in town momentarily. Counting constellations from her tan speckled cheeks, I envy her openness. She exists where I do not, doing things I long to do. She never ceases to impress with her kindness and fault hoods. We saw the golden compass at the trashy three dollar cinema {families of seven and cheap popcorn, oh my!}, leaning back in the seats, unwillingly. She isn’t afraid of interaction with David, which I appreciate. Often it feels as though many of my contemporaries are less than enthused with his presence, it is heartbreaking for me. I am less than whole without him and know that the next few months will be harder than ever. That got serious real fast… I will begin the time travelers wife tonight, and am most excited!

Love After Love

The time will comewhen, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

-Derek Walcott

This escape feels more like a really long detour…

“Sometimes our lives are less than extraordinary,” with cramped hands I manually dictate fragments of text into a workbook with my failing blue pen. “Sometimes our lives aren’t the greatest sources of inspiration,” I could cut the skin from the inner side of my ring finger and I wouldn’t feel it due to the obscene callous formed there. For the record nothing about beauty school is glamorous, try hideous and shameful for accuracy, indeed. If the sudden interest in seeing our completed workbooks were not on the agenda for tomorrow morning, today would have been a very good day. It happens, even now with the shards of my social life splintered and half protruding, uncomfortably from my ever tender skin. “Sometimes no amount of life resuscitating measures can prevent loss,” the myspace server is grinding to a halt but I can still see you have moved me down your friends list again, I am as shocked as I am not. Vibrating devices alert me that my mother has called, she offers advice, she offers unconditional love- I offer a no thank you. “Sometimes the ones we love are eager to help everyone but themselves,” the piece of paper crinkled in my hand is a statement saying that I have missed two months worth of class days, I have begun to bite at my lips again.

Pajama clad and unkempt

Another weekend gone by, time has escaped me frequently this last year. As Valentine’s day approaches, so does a terrific event and a dreaded anniversary of sorts. The event which I speak of is an annual sci-fi convention my partner and I attend out of tradition more than anything. A weekend of badly dressed people, drinking heavily and fondling one another while a crowd of individuals {either too young or already involved} watch {and also participate in gaming tournaments}- it is a fantastic spectacle! It is a modern day freak show and we have the best time. On the other hand, Valentine’s day itself will mark exactly one year without a best friend, as I have taken to calling it {if each day, week, month, were characterized by what is missing from it}. But life went on, the tears eventually ran out and I found new friendships to treasure. I am becoming notorious for my ability to carry emotional burdens long forgotten by average human beings, as I am an abandoned anthology, dusty and shelf worn.

I spent a great deal of time with Chae this weekend, which was very nice since I rarely see her! We saw Clover field {which is excellent by the way, no spoilers here}, enjoyed some conversation over delicious veggie burgers, later on refreshing the color in her hair {from the haute-hair show} and played a little Mario galaxy. All these pleasant distractions were a comfort to me. Sitting on the couch, pajama clad in mismatched pieces, her legs draped over my own- how I fancy the experience of intimacy. Chae and I have become what I consider to be close friends and I am glad of that.

Two new books in my possession; The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides and The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier. I have intention to finish them this week, more to come on that later.

Squirrels: friends or foes…

Portland was a lot of fun. I have been more than a little down in the spirits department of late and was in much need of experiencing something beautiful, luckily that is just what I did. Walking the halls of the old Kennedy School although benign to many, I am sure, was- uplifting. The architecture, the artwork, the faint signs of disrepair, those physical ghosts that have enchanted me over space and time. I want something that was so important to someone or many who have passed on, I feel like I have always longed for this. I suppose that is why in recent years I have rejected the supernatural, I do hate disappointment.

It rained, I felt steeped from the moisture. I sat in the honors bar with friends and lovers sipping cocoa, the antique fireplace emitting a dangerous amount of heat. Not a detail untouched in this place even the pipes were adorned with portraits of historical figures. It is funny how everything is smaller in person. Later that evening curled up on a red velvet sofa in an auditorium converted into a theatre, we eat veggie pizza, my zebra clad toes wiggling in anticipation as we wait for the show to begin. She tells me that when they officially closed the school all the power was turned off and the clocks froze in time. I look up, "but when they reopened despite cutting power to the clocks themselves it still seeps through slowly churning out minutes over the last several years." I nod and feel a glowing, as I completely relate to that feeling.

I search the map of all the rooms, all different, all given to guests at random. We are in the tea party room, which to those who know the tale as well as my own fascinations is hilarious and nearly fateful {if you dig that sort of thing}. There is no tele and a chalkboard that covers most the wall, I have to tell you this feels most liberating. Not that the tele is quite so tempting but that it makes it much easier to be un-ambitious.

In the car on the way over I read water for elephants, even now I have only a few pages to go. I cry when it is sad, when it is beautiful, I read passages out loud to David as he drives. I look up, take in the scene and make mental notes on the general area as we pass, so quickly. I know when we are close to my family because the land loses color and becomes irritatingly flat. I know we are close to our home when the trees and water join space, the road elevating. I know what bathrooms are cleanest. I know what markets are best stocked, as though I have spent too much time driving and I lament on what it must be like to take the train.