Directions to Borders

I live within walking distance from a bookstore. Or rather, I live walking distance from my home. Ty and I often find ourselves making that short jaunt over to Borders, our local bookstore of choice. We happily trounce on dried up old leaves, waiting for that gratifying crunch to swat at the crisp air. Sometimes we’ll kick a rock back and forth as we walk, trying to lengthen the distance and keep the precision each time. This usually goes on until one of us tries to really launch it and it catapults off the beaten trail, skittering away from our desire of retrieval.
Then comes the adventure of crossing Walker road, one of the main arteries of SW Beaverton. Cars of all shapes and sizes siphon through this two lane stretch, but between them all, Ty and I scamper across. This is a small risk we take to lounge in a backdrop of books. And we take it without question.
We traverse the bowling ally parking lot next; veering left and then left again. Borders soon greets us with its oversized lettering and open windows that reveal plush espresso-brown chairs and wooden tables. Coffee is brewing, its steam rising above countless rows of paperbacks and hardcover books. Ah, home again.

On the Subject of Christmas

Ah, Christmas time is here again. The white and green of Starbucks cups everywhere are now dripping blood red. It seems they have once again fallen prey to the crazy Christmas Slasher who, every year, takes these cups as its first victim in a massive plan to douse every American city red. Soon shopping bags, store fronts, clothes and iPods will all bear the scarlet mark and our own mothers and fathers will start to cover themselves in countless variations of knitted sweaters and fleece scarves—all in, yes you have it—red.

Christmas trees will follow ubiquitous suite as they spring from grounds of dirt, tile, marble and linoleum, rousing from their summertime slumber to light up the lobbies of downtown buildings and ranch style living rooms. Lights and bulbs adorn their branches, swinging from limb to limb as if tracing the trail of a secret Christmas tree monkey. A monkey which probably dwells beneath the branches eating popcorn and candy canes from its new habitat’s generous boughs. He will get an unpleasant surprise come New Years. These trees become so prevalent this time of year that I am sure even the greatest of skeptics begin to believe that trees actually grow that way. Tied up in lights with only the grout of tile with which to draw nourishment.

Along with this background there are other seasonal truisms such as church carolers (I like the ones in the mall, but I never know what to do with the ones that come to my door—I feel like they’re watching me just like I’m watching them and I always feel the need to put on some kind of performance), also, countless Santas speckling the outside corners of malls, ringing their bell for a contribution, pushy insistent shoppers, Christmas TV specials (Charlie Brown ranks number one on my list) and Midnight Mass. Okay, that’s not necessarily a comprehensive list, but you get the idea, right. It’s a circus out there.

Underlying all of this is the Jesus’ birth, of course—a very key point which is sometimes forgotten in all the madness of gift giving and getting. Unless, of course you happen to catch Linus giving account on his cartoon stage, a blanket as his pulpit. I don’t get too wound up anymore on this issue. After all, I don’t really know anything about St. Patrick but I still wear green and drink up when that day rolls around. I suppose if Christ’s birth is important to you, well than you won’t forget will you? And if you aren’t forgetting, then it’s still just as sacred to you—and that’s about all you can control anyway. That and maybe putting a massive nativity scene in your front yard.

So let’s get on with it then. Christmas has its flaws—you only have to look at far as that ‘Christmas in the Northwest’ song to be convinced of that. Despite it all though, I happen to love this time of year. I love the lights, the trees, the music, the fires and hot chai, and yes, even those red Starbucks cups.

It’s just so damn cozy.

Madness I Say

Black Friday. Whose idea was it to stuff people with turkey on Thursday, and raise them at 4:00 in the morning on Friday? It seems that the Americans fortunate enough to have Friday off should be making good use of that gift by sleeping in and letting all of the food consumed the day prior, shuffle off to its appropriate body part. Nine or ten o’clock should see them finally getting out of bed, walking the distance to the couch and watching college football for at least another hour.

Rising at an ungodly hour such as 4am is really just an insult to all the poor souls who have begrudgingly trenched off to work—donning their work clothes so that all others may sleep and laze around, basking in the excitement of a four day weekend. It is clear to all of these Back Friday workers that the people who are crowding the gates at every Fred Meyers and Macys do not know how to properly honor a day off. I'll give you a hint, its starts with not banging on the doors of every six hour sale, while a wine hangover still lingers from the festivities of the night before.

Personally, I am afraid to dwell within that shopping pack. I could just imagine my horror as I am running through aisle, madly searching for any amazing deal that might not be a complete waste of money. It would be one of those experiences that are so overwhelming; your body just stops and refuses to move. You simply look around, totally at a loss of how to proceed or what world you are living in. Hundreds of crazed soccer moms would be shoving past me, reaching, grabbing, snatching, ready to knife someone for that one last perfect gift that little Tommy just has to have. A twilight zone set it Target. The crowds and sickening materialism would probably become so suffocating that I would, in an amazing show of strength, lift my shopping cart over my head and heave it right in the heart of the crowd. Then I would stomp off and go find those hills that Julie Andrews twirled around on in Sound of Music. Or anywhere that had that kind of space.

What did I do today? I slept in until eight thirty, shuffled out of bed to the distance of the couch and watched Good Morning America while chomping on a bowl of Corn Bran. I did not give one thought to the deals I was missing or the American tradition I was ignoring. This is how a day off should start.

By the time ten o’clock came around many shoppers had already been zipping through the aisles for almost four hours so Ty and I decided to brave it to Best Buy. Mainly, I just followed Ty around, keeping close so as not to lose him. I could just imagine the crowd ripping our hands apart, carrying Ty off to computer parts and pushing me toward kitchen appliances as we futilely tried to fight their crazed Christmas momentum. This did not happen; buts its possibility still makes me shudder. I consider us very lucky.

Metropolitan Area Express 101

This morning, like all mornings, I was carried to work on the MAX. It swept me up at the Millikan way stop and deposited me right onto 5th avenue, in downtown Portland. In the interim of that journey I was sandwiched between various white and blue collar workers all making the inevitable trek with me.
There is never an open seat when I enter, too many people going to the same central work zone at the same time. That’s okay though because I have learned a few survival tips which have helped me snag a seat here and there and which have also kept me away from the areas on the MAX where people are squished together like grapes coming off a vineyard. (And yes, there is lots of ‘whine’ as a result).
They pardon each others familiarity, but I would rather just avoid it.
The trick is to never stay in front of those sliding doors. It is these doors which open to unveil a mass of people eager to cram themselves into any space available. That includes yours—and any personal bubble you may have too. Soon your airy, spacious spot is overrun with lots and lots of bodies.
It only took me a few weeks to realize that in order to avoid the morning onslaught one must venture past these doors and into the narrow corridors which stretch through each light-rail car. There is so little standing room here that many prefer not to stand there at all. This is why it is a great place to stake your spot.
If you do find yourself caught in front of a door, try to secure yourself to a wall. Put your back against it—not just a hand. That is the best way to retain your territory. If you plaster yourself to that wall, you have something to lean on, and you don’t have people crowding you from all angles. This is the best way to survive the doors of the MAX.
If you want to snag a seat, the corridors are again a good place simply because there is not as much competition. Some people are so eager to sit that they will coyly study their seated neighbors, eyeing the one who seems to be rustling about in preparation of an exit. Don’t be fool enough to think they won’t run you over to sit their tush down. I’ve seen it happen and it’s not pretty.
Another tip, which is not that reliable, but which is sometimes fruitful—Mexican passengers. For a while I was noticing that they where predominantly leaving at the Beaverton Transit stop, which is only two stops after my arrival. I tried to stand next to these fine people. Sometimes I was right and they did leave as expected, at which time I would silently compliment myself on my cleverness. Sometimes, however, my instincts failed me and they sat comfortably all the way downtown. No self compliments for those occurrences. As I said, it is not a reliable system and I have since given up on seeking them out. Besides, it seems a bit exploitive doesn’t it? I must admit, though, that I do the same thing with transients on the way home. If there are no seats, I stand by them. I know there is no way they are going to Beaverton! This tends to be more reliable that the prior I mentioned. Even though it is a bit broad brushed.
Some random bits—the tunnel is the best place to check your reflection and fix any stray hairs etc. The black cloak during this portion of the ride creates a nice reflection effect. The tunnel is also where the possibility of nausea is the highest (at least for me). So be careful not to get too crazy swinging to your tunes and tossing your hair about.
One last thing. It is true that the MAX takes me begrudgingly to the Man, who then puts me to work, pats my head and sends me back nine hours later, but all in all the system is not bad. I must give up props. It saves me gas, I can people-watch and listen to good music all at the same time, and with any luck, I can sit my ass down before my competition. If I achieve that, I have already won my first battle of the day before the clock even strikes 9:00am.

The Tour

My house consists of three bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, and living room. They are all connected by a river of hardwood and an occasional flurry of Italian tile. It is not a large home. I wouldn’t even say it is in the midland territory. It is small. I love it. When I step into the house it wraps me up with its close quarters and when Ty is there, we are wrapped up together.
There is a glow that permeates through the place. I think it comes from the shine of the hardwoods and the sun which escapes the outdoors to rest on our walls and furniture. It is picturesque, and I am still smitten. Familiarity has not bred contempt but rather an increased appreciation of every angle and every dot of color that paint our home. I do not write this to brag or give airs. I imagine everyone must feel this sense about the place they live. The place where the world need not enter, nor its contentions. In a home, the world is merely the colors that trace and fill each window. A picture. The world is a dream and in your home, you live.

My living room is where I love to linger. A brick fireplace climbs one of its walls giving natural warmth that requires no additions. It is simple, yet striking. Sometimes a fire will dance in this cave of red brick, like a scene from a children’s Christmas book. All that is missing are the stockings. I lose myself in that dance.
On the mantle of the fireplace are five small votives. (I have determined that if I ever wanted to ‘off’ five people, I would snuff out each candle, one by one, as each person fell, thereby adding to the foreboding doom that would no doubt be hanging thickly. The effect would be better than china dolls I suspect). Cozied up to the fireplace is a white built-in bookshelf where ideas, references and dreams are stored. Chesterton, Lewis, Tolkein, and Steinbeck are all among the inhabitants of its shelves. Oh the debates they must have!
The furniture in the living room consists of a loveseat, couch and TV—all circling each other as one amiable set with a red-and-sage-toned rug planted right in the middle of it all. Two cushioned leather cubes are posted at each corner of the rug, offering support for weary feet and tired legs.
Behind the loveseat there is a large picture window which flushes the room with light in various sizes of rectangular shards. I love that window. It serves my voyeuristic tendencies, allowing me to pear out into the world through the white plantation slits, while remaining relatively immune from the gazes of others. A man walking his two dogs—he comes this way often. Two women jogging together and chatting—a feat I do not understand. The neighbor pulling into his driveway in the white mini-van—always opening the doors of that van, even when the family isn’t going anywhere… Does it smell or something?
The bathroom is next. It is a small room with half of its space monopolized by the bathtub lounging in the back. There is a mini-window above the tub which I adore. On its ledge rest two aqua blue candles that are just transparent enough to allow the sunlight to illuminate their wax. The sink is pedestal—classy but hardly practical and the walls are painted a fresh tropical green. The only painting project to have yet been attempted. It is a breath of fresh air—and if not, well there is some scented air freshener on top of the toilet!
In our bedroom there is a big, white bed. It is a cloud. It feels like a cloud. I am always late to work.
Next to the bedroom is our office, where I am currently residing. There is one book shelf which holds magazines, cds, and the like. Ty is here too and has presently planted himself in front of our desktop computer. He has great big headphones covering his ears and seems intent on killing everyone on the screen. I tell myself that he is saving the world, but who really knows. Whatever he is trying to accomplish, I wish him all the best. I am sitting on an Ikea Poang chair with my feet propped up on the accompanying ottoman. This spot is second only to the living room. Unless it’s a Saturday morning, in which case, our bed races to the top every time.
The third bedroom is our closet. It usually is covered with clothes by midweek and stays that way until Saturday when all the clothes get picked up so we can go through the fun of tossing them back on the ground all over again.
Now to the place with the food. The best part about our kitchen is the row of four windows that open up to the backyard. Light is never lacking in this little cooking nook. Our counters consist of big, grey tile slabs that nicely offset the swatches of red that are sprinkled through the décor. Our appliances are stainless steel, which adds a restaurant quality to the overall look, and Italian tile covers the floor. It is a cozy kitchen—many chickens have met their final end here. Not that we slaughtered them, but we ate them—which seems final enough.
And that is my home, if mere words can contain it. You see, I’m pretty sure words can describe a house, but a home—that is another thing entirely. I still seem to have fallen short in articulating what that fascination and wonder is all about when I step through my front door and feel light—when I get distracted by the arrangement and color of books on a bookshelf and the shadows of dancing tree branches that bring our bedroom wall alive in the morning.
I don’t really feel I need to explain it, enough people probably know it more thoroughly than I do.
It is new to me though.
I am still swimming in its wonder.

DOom Do dO DOom

I have become quite familiar with the feeling of dread. It churns my stomach to a point where I am sure all intestinal function must have been ground to bits. My hands go slightly numb, but the ache in my stomach merits this as only secondary.
Job interviews, unpracticed speeches, and the first sentence of a book I may never finish, all evoke this notorious biological clause. It comes on with great intensity; I’m pushed to the brink of nausea and saved just in time by logic and optimism with no moments to spare. My very own Indiana and Jones. The battle is not over then though—dread can lay unnoticed in my psyche for days on end and then, with one single thought or worry, it blindsides me with a wrenching, paralyzing fear. Fear of failure. Cliché but true. Perhaps the curious vigor with which this feeling charges is fueled by the repression which I have consistently and contentedly lavished upon it—I do not tend to linger on negative thoughts, but they have to go somewhere.*
Lately my dread has been derived from, as mentioned previously, the Job Interview. I find a strange mix of hope and doom residing in my mind due to the anticipation of this event. Hope for what could be and doom for what inevitably will be. It is a mental tennis match, with each player slicing low shots which barely sail over the net and leave me teetering on the edge of sanity—or insanity if you please. I long for a day when fickle emotions and self esteem hiccups no longer wreak havoc on my visions for what I can accomplish and who I can become.
I wish I could end this blog with a witty ‘Game, Set, Match,’ conclusion but alas, life is not that simple.
And so I say deuce.



*In my mind I envision all these thoughts as tiny gnomes all suited up in red leather armor, pounding their long spears in rhythmic fashion, mechanically chanting some séance-esque tune—readying themselves for their next onslaught of overpowering dread. Their ranks ever increasing.

Spectating

What a wonderful, rare thing to be aware that you are existing in a moment that is wonderful. To not have to look back at that moment with yearning nostalgia, but to actually be able to appreciate its grandness as you soak it in with contented pleasure, letting it wash over you and linger. It is spiritual in the way a spiritual thing should be. Effortlessly peaceful.
I was tucked deep inside my couch when this moment came, gazing at the outside world through a picture window and white plantation blinds. Everything had been done. Ty and I had raked, mowed, vacuumed and swept. The stage was set. The rays of the fall sun were the spotlight, framing the moment with a glow which mirrored my own mood. I felt light. The couch was floating.
My legs and feet were covered with a blanket and I had a cup of coffee in my hands. I drank the warm liquid slowly. There was no rush, only time to savor. Ty was sitting opposite me with his attention toward the outdoors, both of us mesmerized by the sun that shone through the Big Maple’s remaining leaves, illuminating them in golden brilliance. It was the leaves’ one last etch into the beauty of the neighborhood sky before they swirled down to earth. Applause seemed appropriate.
Rectangular strips of sun painted themselves onto our rug and I kept gazing out the window—like a cat on the windowsill, overseeing fall’s great production. Across the street there was a tire swing gently dancing with the November breeze and a father and daughter out raking leaves. A baby was strapped to the father’s chest, making the act of raking an entertaining struggle for both. The daughter, who looked about six, soon took over, but fared no better as the rake was bigger than she was. It was an overwhelmingly charming scene, such that our 1950s neighborhood is given to showcasing.
I read a whole book right there in that spot, sipping my coffee and occasionally looking out at the world outside. Across the street, the father and daughter had retreated into their home, yard half raked and leaves still falling. The sun had gone down as I read. Curtains had closed. Time had not stood still as it had felt. The world kept moving.
I felt outside of it.

The Murder

I think I’m in the middle of a sugar rush. Energy is surging through my veins, despite the fatigue that is dragging at my ankles. Looking over to the weathered side table on my right there are four disheveled candy wrappers. All different varieties and all mine. It is a dangerous game to buy a bag of Halloween candy for only a handful of visitors. The treat is the trick. How does one avoid a bagful of chocolate all wrapped up in eye-grabbing bright colors and convenient bite-size portions?
….
My pulse is racing. The chocolate is watching me, taunting me with its packaging and promises. I feel my desperation rising—I must act now. Before I can think I grab the bag of Halloween candy and launch it across the room, feeling only the urgent need to get away. The candy scatters over the rug—accusing me even from across the room. Only one thing to do now. I don’t dare pick up the baiting chocolate, opting instead to roll up the rug with the evil inside. I cram the rug in the trunk of a silver BMW and rev through a dark foggy night, down toward the pier. What pier? The Pier. When I arrive, there is no one watching except for the eerie, glowing eye of a distant street light. The fog is floating above the waters, and the windy cold stings my eyes as I exit the car to do must be done. I wrap my trench coat tightly around me, and quickly check my surroundings for signs of passing strangers. I am alone. I open the trunk and look inside, half expecting the Enemy to have escaped. That would be the end for me—no way was I resisting its temptations twice. It was now or never. I grab the rug and swing it over my shoulder, not letting my mind wander to the ramifications of what I was about to do. At the edge of the pier I let the rug roll off my shoulders into the hungry, black waters. My breath catches in my throat as the rug hesitates for a moment before slowly disappearing beneath the waters. I stay until the last bit of tassel dips beneath the rolling waves. Shaking, I return to the car, sweat dripping from my pale skin. I sit with my head against the steering wheel for just a moment before igniting the engine and racing off into the night.