Life on Powerpoint

This is not the beginning. The beginning was last October. This is merely a continuation of the beginning. It’s not quite a middle, but like I said, it is not the beginning.

Is there a word for the space between beginning and middle or is it simply a nameless existence in which something is transformed into something else? And if so, is there a precise moment when the beginning of something turns into the middle or does it depend on the situation, or does it maybe sometimes never happen? And if it sometimes never happens does it stay a beginning forever or does it just skip the middle altogether and catapult straight toward the end?

I could see how that could happen. You start at the beginning and are told that the middle will be coming up next. You wait for it. Waiting, waiting. But who tells you how to get to the middle? Is it merely a passing of time and then you’re there or is there some rite of passage that has to be performed? The instructions are in bullet points but that isn’t how we read. Bullet points are used when there will be a speaker to explain them to you in greater detail. In order to understand. But we just have freaking bullet points with no speaker.

• Beginning
• Middle
• End

The end must be easier to determine than the middle. There is generally a finishing of something which marks the end. What you were doing, you now are not. It is impossible to not know that you have ended something. Same for the beginning. You start something which you were not doing previously. It would be a hard thing in which to claim ignorance.

The idea that the middle could be so easily missed is troubling though. It seems so important, what with the bullet point and all, that I would hate for it to simply pass me by with out some sort of acknowledgement.

But I do know that I’m not at the middle. The beginning was in October. If I knew when the end would be I might be able to determine the middle. Seems like an wildly important thing to miss. I could miss it though. After all, look where we are.

End

A Subject of Sorts

Today could be described as lovely if one were talking about the weather. I am not talking about the weather however. No, my subject is impervious to weather and all of its fickle indiscretions. There is no rain that can dampen my subject's extremities or even bead up upon its surface. Sun cannot warm it and wind cannot bring about a chill. When the weatherman predicts a chance of showers my subject does not consider to bring a jacket. When he predicts snow my subject feels no fear of driving. When a blanket of gray coats the sky for what seems an eternity, my subject does not let a sigh escape before rising from bed. As the weather continues to dictate and direct the course of a day's activities, its power is lost on my subject. What a beautiful happening. Weather sans power or importance. An elite existence with an attitude sailing by nonchalant and diving right into utter apathy toward weather.

What is my subject? An abstract idea perhaps? A virtue lost beneath generations of compromise? I'm wondering if at this point it really even matters. Could you walk away from this with just the simple knowledge that something out there is outside the realm of Weather's power and be satisfied? It seems a satisfying thought. A sweet secret that you keep with you as tiny wet bullets spring from the sky and scatter across your face. No, Rain, you are not limitless, yes Wind you have bounds. While we may fall victim to all of Weather's air streams and storm fronts, there is something out there free from it all. And in that freedom can we find our own?

Maybe if we knew what is was.

But honestly, its not that hard--pick an idea, or god or metaphor and relish in the fact that it has no thought toward weather. Take the knowledge and may it make you laugh at the wind as it whips by you and may it give you the courage to flip off the falling sleet.

This is the way to survive Portland's Winter and Spring. A little perspective and ornery as hell.

Love Me Do

I love my husband. Can I just take a moment to say that? And its not just because he bought me a super silver car and a super silver laptop that came with a super silver iPod. Although that helped, I'll admit.

Kidding.

I just love the guy. He delights in seeing me happy but not to the point where he is compromising who he is and what he believes. He believes in Macintosh and Subaru lucky for me. He's not a rug I can walk all over thank the heavens, but he also isn't some overly macho jackass who feels as though sharing consideration and love for someone is the equivalent to donning a pair of tight Gap jeans and living in the Pearl.

I'm going to stop trying to explain myself at this point because I have realized that if I continue you will all be subject to a mishmash of cliche thoughts on Love which I direly wish to rescue you from. And so I shall. You're welcome.

Love is really not complicated at all but it is so hard to write about without everything sounding as though it belongs in a Hallmark card. Find someone who can describe the feeling of a summer evening slipping away to tunes of old twenties music, or the silhouette of blue mountain ranges just as the sun is dropping under the earth--they may have a slight chance of being able to describe Love with utter tear jerking truth. I certainly cannot. You may also be able to find some five year old who can relay Love in just a sentence--the simplicity and honesty shockingly precise. Again, not me. Actually as I think about it, I seem to be hovering between two groups who can capture love's essence and slap it on paper without any nauseating effects on the reader. And here I am hovering like a idiot--censored to the topic of Love all for the sake of the reader--may a gag reflex never find you because of me. There. Now that is love.