today

Today is the day my parents decided to make me.

30 years ago today, my parents got married.  I wonder what the future looked like for them as they stood face to face on that alter.  Did they want a forever?  Was there something they knew but thought it would pass?  Maybe love just wasn't enough? They didn't know it that day, but their relationship ended, 18 years ago...a longer relationship apart than together.  But on this day, playing The Beattles, Will You Still Love me When I'm 64, walking down the isle, my parents made this world for me.

It happens. 

you know it

a place where meetings 

become a game of old lady or go fish

and emails read aloud 

become poetry from

the devil

human nature at its worst

studied behind

a suit jacket

bathroom walls provide

the only moment of true privacy

while a cauldron of speculation

brews in the coffee vendor

just outside the door

sing it sister

I also just realized that I am here representing America.  All of it.  I am "those" Americans.  Now I know how Whitney Houston felt when she sang, I'm Every Woman.  Seriously.

Learnt

backlog - more deep thoughts from August 22nd.  

I am remembering laying on "A's" bed with him.  It was his bed I desired.  His bed represented warmth, safety, comfort and accommodation.  My bed felt utilitarian at best, yes it coordinated with my room  but  I was in no position, or was without personal permission to spend the money and effort into making it my palace.  His was a palace, a fortress.  Sentimental of the way I felt crawling into my mother's bed as a small child while she held me watching her late night TV.  I found that in "A's" bed.  

It is amazing how a piece of furniture and some textiles can do that.  I am amazed.

well look what I found

Back log : August 22nd

I miss Portland more than ever right now.  I am jealous of the people drinking their coffees at Stumptown or Opposable Thumbs or having a beer at Side St. or sipping a glass of wine at Lupa - walking up and down the streets of Alberta or Mississippi after breakfast at the Tin Shed or Gravy.  Laying as a hung over mess on the grass outside of moxie.

I am a Portlander.  I am a Portlander. What a tremendous source of pride I get from saying that and how threatened I feel when I see others enjoying it without me.  I am a Portlander.  I am the girl with the bangs who does my part to save the planet, who wears skinny jeans and spends $5 on an avocado - who looks for food from local organic growers and care that my hair and face products weren't tested on animals nor do they have a 30 sec. spot on some TV 

station that I don't watch.  Distance makes the heart grow fonder. I am a true Portlander, there is not another place I'd rather be (unless on holiday or for short term employment).

Getting ready to leave

Perhaps part of the process for moving to another country is scrutinizing over every lifestyle cliche where you are currently living.  This certainly happened to me and I wrote this poem to express myself :

I am Portland

I live in Portland

I am a girl or boy

I am the only black person in the room

My hispanic friends live in the burbs

My hair hasn't been washed in 2-4 days

I use all natural, organic make-up, face and body wash

I have bangs

I wear skinny jeans

and so do my friends

I tote a yoga mat to my yoga classes

I wear crocks

My diet consists of organic everything

I believe in good :

wine

chocolate

cheese

salt

flowers

and I let everyone know it

I loathe plastic grocery bags and anyone else who uses them

I use the same water bottle because plastic is sufficating the environment.

I do my part to save the environment

My look is subtle

and chic

don't forget chic

only people from the suburbs

coordinate, iron or tuck 

their clothing

it is important for them to be noticed

not me

I'm subtle

and chic.

Stick it where the sun don't shine.

This SUCKS!  WHAT THE FUCK!  After what seems like a year I finally receive my $300 check.  A miracle check just to survive and not live out of my supervisor's wallet.  I think I can make it.  Like a happy ignorant dog I enter the bank, tail wagging, eyes glossy, ready to present my check.

TWO FUCKING WEEKS to turn this check into real money.

that one stung a little.