Let's walk backwards.

Spring Zine

Notes to Self at work

Imperfection

I want to make perfect things. I want to make perfect zines. Maybe I have to make a lot of imperfect riff raff until I hit gold and start making perfect things. But it seems perfection is something that would always be there. Perhaps I will make imperfect zines forever. I am trying to finish my zine today and I feel like it's sucking big time.

Ev

There is a French study group that meets Saturday at 1:30 in Building Number 3 on the Redmond COCC campus. This Saturday, for the first time, I went and was pleasantly surprised to meet a lively group of french speakers; one of them, Eve (pronounced Ev) an Alsace native who both in French and English revealed an interesting timeline dating back from World War II.
To be in Alsace during WWII would be like the pen that writes the history books, being right in between everything. Alsace, a north eastern region in France borders German and Switzerland. Her house in (or near) Strasbourg, she said, was occupied several times by officers and soldiers of Germany, America, and England during various sieges of the war.
"The Germans were the most polite," she commented. They had occupied her home near the end of the war, taking half the house to themselves and their operations. "They knew the war would be over, they were all drafted soldiers, didn't have much a stake in the war." The handsome Americans loomed tall over her and asked her mother where she slept at night. "My mother hid me. I was 14. She hid me in a room at the top of house." The Americans ruined the leather with their careless tossing about of equipment and "pissed in the flower pots."
Her whole life she wanted out of France almost marrying an attractive Brazilian man but taking to Egypt with an Arabian, quickly learning Arabian with her "bons oreilles." Ultimately, following a divorce and working as a nurse in Egypt (the second but closest tier to a prostitute she hushed to me in French and then realizing I didn't comprehend a word translated into English).
Ultimately, without telling the go-between story she ended up in America married to her own handsome American.
Eve speaks four languages; Arabian, German, French, and English. All, in most likelyhood, with absolute perfection. Did I fall in love with Eve? Yes.

Rob Brezny Free Will Astrology

Brezny once told me to create an initiation ceremony; so I spent the morning cleaning my house, giving away things I still wanted and fasting.
During a rough time last summer Brezny elected Katsushika Hokusai as my mentor, the artist who made woodblocks for the series of paintings "Views of Mount Fuji" (including the classic Japanese waves) who, Brezny claimed, "celebrated 60 births."
I wrote in my journal:
"How would Hokusai see the world continuously refreshed? How many views of Mt.Fuji did he make? 36 wood prints?" and I stared at the Views of Mount Fuji until my mind was clear of the fog and muck and once again produced inspiration.
Brezny once told me:
"You're a rebel creator longing to make the whole universe your home and sanctuary. You are a dissident Bodhisattva joyfully struggling to germinate the seeds of divine love that are packed inside every moment," and I smiled and shuffled my tarot cards feeling like teacher and a student.
Brenzy told me to eat my shadow. The shadow being all the "unacceptable aspects of ourselves that we dump into the unconscious mind." Since then I've been swallowing my shadow bit by bit- trying to eat away at the ugliness I see in myself.
For homework this week Brezny asked me to "go outside at night, make two fists, and punch the sky ten times while you announce, 'Hey God, listen up! I'm gonna fight for what's rightly mine!'" and I started a fight to take the controls back from God and into my own hands. Please note: I am doing so politely and graciously, with appreciation of the gifts. Do we have the stength to take what is rightly ours? I will see.

Best Thriftstore in Bend

Gold glitter pants, Wedding dress, Green sweater made in Scotland, Ancient Harlequin Romance novels, Black pleather purse, Christian literature and tapes. This and more can all be yours for less than $5 dollars. Enter the cherriest of thriftstores: The Discovery Christian Thriftshop: 1434 NW 4th St. It can be found off Newport Avenue behind the Discovery Christian Church (look for the white steeple) and is open Wednesday-Friday from 11AM-4PM. They also accept donations Monday between 9AM and 2PM.
Boxes on the porch are free things (I once found a bunt cake mold) but I recommend looking through them on your way out rather than when you enter. Freshly painted and carpeted you will be greeted by children's clothing and toys as well as the sweet ladies of the Discovery Church. Tight racks of hokey women's clothing with a shelf of dated kitchen appliances on the left, the right with shelves arrayed with knick-knacks and must-have Precious Moments collectors items. Farther in the store two rooms branch off at a built in book case, to the right is .25 cent room and the left is it's more prestigious brother, the .50 cent room. A dollar will certainly equip you with a new outfit, five dollars and you are a bonafide king in these parts. Second-hand McDonald prizes sit alongside Billy Blanks VHS's all wanting homes and someone to love them (or get ripped glutes).
The Discovery Christian Church is a jackpot for microwave cook books and I once even found an Al Burian zine. You really never know. Proceeds are donated to the Shephard's House and other good places. Make it a point to go here. It's awesome. Also make sure to not mention how ridiculously low priced everything is. I have this theory that they simply are not aware that they are being robbed with such low prices. You can literally recycle a bagful of cans and buy yourself a penguin classic. There needs to be at least one cheap Thrift store in Bend. Lord knows the Goodwill has higher prices than its formaldehyde smelling neighbor; Wal Mart. Discovery Thrift store: Keeping it cute and cheap. Check it.

While the blossoms still cling to the vine

Today we were the inseparable, an Aristophanian creature; two-headed, eight awkward limbs forged together by the heated smithing tools of Hephaestus spreading out limbs like reptiles on river stones in the sun. But neither of us would allow to be forged together forever, even if myth holds those that truly love one another would commit without hesitation to be clasped for eternity. Not our style.
After an early morning grocery run of exciting new foodstuffs (I believe we were literally down to ice and pancake mix) Kevin made rice, tofurkey, and lightly steamed vegetables as I swung my legs from the counter top periodically turning on and off the streaming audio of an archived This American Life as conversation required. The sun curled its way into the kitchen and played on my shoulders as I shelled garlic for sauce and Kevin beat pans together, sliced vegetables, and whined about the shortcomings of tofurkey when compared to real chicken meat all the while drinking the cold morning coffee (it was past 12:00).
Eating, we smiled at one another and talked seriously and openly about what it is to be loved and love; me asking questions, him, doing the best his to exercise his tepid emotional language, a tragedy I attest to High School wrestling and too much time around pool tables. The five acts of love, I explained to him, is a theory about certain needs in relationships and how some people need more or less, some people show love differently. Impressing myself I recalled each by memory:

• Words of affirmation
• Physical touch
• Gifts
• Quality time
• Acts of service

Acts of service is the way I express my feelings for Kevin; doing little things for him here and there and we both agreed we are big fans of Quality time. It's the basis of our foundation I believe; long unending conversations over beer, playing games, sitting together on the couch reading, walks downtown with little planning or direction, spending time in the kitchen arm deep in dough, sauces, tomatoes, spices, and fragrant boiling broth.

"I like when you call me from work. I like that you want to be with me right now, it's very flattering."

After lunch, the fiery tapestry draped across my bed was rolled up and we hummed our way to the park (the back way, where you walk across the bridge) him without shoes (breaking in summer feet, Kevin says) me in the same foam cheap flip-flops I wore in France several years ago- the ones perfectly tailored to my feet, the exact shape of my sole, stopping only to pet a pretty golden retriever and greet smiling faces on warm porches.

The park was expectantly busy, the way it should be, the way I missed it during the hurried winter walks when the park was a a way from here to there, not a destination like it was today. Sleeping, reading out loud the complicated prose of H.P. Lovecraft where I would spit out words like "carcassonne," "Samarcand," and "whithersoever" and found myself lacking in theatrical skills when it came time to spill a phonetically complex speech of one of Lovecraft's strange and dark characters:

"The full moon-damn ye-ye... ye yelping dogs-ye called 'em, and they've come for me! Moccasined feet-dead men- Gad sink ye, ye red devils, but I poisoned no rum o' yours-han't I kept your pox-rotted magic safe? -ye swilled yourselves sick, curse ye, and ye must needs blame the squire-let go, you! Unhand that latch-I've naught for ye here-" I cried, convincing no one. I was actually trying to read in my cutest, dead-pan Starlee Kine voice. H.P. Lovecraft, though we agreed isn't chilling macabre as the genre suggests, but a damn amazing writer. "...all the world is but the smoke of our intellects; past the bidding of the vulgar, but by the wise to be puffed out and drawn in like any cloud of prime Virginia tobacco."

And so sleeping ensued. For a bit. In and out. Clutching my purse, mistrusting even in sleep, a tightly wound mouse trap that looks harmless until you touch the CHEESE!! (my purse of course).

Walking home, the extended version, to Newport Market where we were greeted by the charming Josh (I have in my phone as Josh Tea regarding our social acquaintance being founded on my consistent love of tea) who was teamed with a crew of ice cream eaters, Josh himself eating a delightful vegan/lactose free ice cream that was something like coconut chocolate? Correct me if I am wrong.

Kevin and I bought ice cream and rushed home before it could melt. I cradled it in my purse like a baby and people stopped in cars with more urgency. We made cobbler, made from brabeaurn apples; me, skinning the apples as Kevin cut out the cores and then sliced them- then me massaging the ingredients of the dough as Kevin boiled the apples and prepared them with sugar and cinnamon.

25 minutes later, dishes, and Mom calling and neighbors walking too and fro- a smoking oven from sugar residues leaking to the bottom and patiently waiting for a hastened cooling we ate the first home-made pie of the year with vanilla bean ice cream. We both shamelessly ate two full bowls and reclined on the couch, lacking any other plan.

The evening has dissolved into private works. Me: filling out job applications and writing this and that, finally sending my contributions to Ian Haightred for his Eugene zine. Kevin: read, sleeping, reading, going for a walk, reading again the in between kisses and should rubs. But quiet. A perfect, quiet day. A sleepy sunny day with red shoulders, still wearing the colorful summer skirt I pulled out of the storage unit last week, Kevin sleepy from hours of direct sun and worryless incubation on his day off- caught up on nothingness, caught up on losing focus and forgetting the time- true treasures in his mind.

Money

Cleaning the house.
I found 5 Euro. After a quick conversion I discovered my find is worth 6.52903.
Another site says I have 6.51960.
Another site says I have 3.83.


What the hell.

A House Wife Smile

Today, to the soundtrack of a This American Life rerun, I resigned myself.
It was a decision, not just an acceptance, but I can't say it was easy, that it didn't come without protest.
I resigned myself to cleaning Kevin's mess.
It's like this: Kevin is my boyfriend. We live together. We cook together. I clean things up, and ask him to clean things to but he has this thing I call a "clothing collection." I point it out to friends and family when I give a grand tour.
"Here's the bathroom, there are my shampoos and conditioners, here is my exotic oils set.. here is the bedroom: bed, dresser, book shelves... oh that? That's Kevin's collection of clothing. He doesn't have it on display yet. He stores it in here until he has the time to put it together. I know, it's pretty expansive. One day he hopes to get a full collection of clothes. Can't wait."
Kevin's clothing collection is a pile of crumpled shirts, socks, pants, broken shoes, digested into newspapers, spiral notebooks, family pictures and letters, cigarette filters, as well as his collection of plastic bags. As well as clothes Kevin collects rubber bands and receipts. It's all in there.
Today I cleaned it up.
I folded the clothes and put them in the dresser, empty if not for Maxim magazines and even more bits of paper and cigarette filters. I took all the papers and put them in a bag. I hung sweatshirts and coats in the hallway clothes. I swept.
And this time I didn't get mad. Because usually, I get mad.
I cuss. To no one. I just cuss.
I did the dishes. I cleaned all the breakfast dishes. I cleaned the dishes from last night. I always do the dishes. Everyday I hand wash every dish.
I vacuumed. I vacuumed the trails from door to couch. And I put the remote controls together, organized the video box which Kevin rifles through, I put the videos collecting around the television neatly into the box. I dusted.
And I usually get upset. I shouldn't have to do this all the time. Kevin should be doing this.
And this is when I made the decision to resign myself.
I resigned myself to all these menial, unappreciated tasks. I said, "Okay. I will do these things. I will take them on. They are my tasks. They are my chores even if I only committed to the joy of making these messes fifty-percent. I will do them. I will be happy."
Resigning to the task in a way the 1950's housewife resigns to them. The man pays the bills, the woman keeps the house. Of course this wasn't an easy pill to swallow. More of a horse sized suppository than an easily chewable Flinstone's vitamin. Taking it wasn't to the relief of indigestion, it was straight up constipation.
*sigh*
So. As I do the dishes. As I listen to This American Life. As I forgo any personal task of enjoyment I might with the thought of the house maintaining itself on it's own, I sigh. I sigh and smile and drink a glass of wine. A smile and take a shot of tequila. And then another one. And then I am smiling wide and drunk, realizing there is no where I have to go tomorrow. I smile the perfect white Crest commercial smile with the frame of perfectly applied red lipstick, the smile of housewife at work.

April 15th 2009

Today is cleaning. And today is the weather trying to make up its mind, petels swept under the oven, room temperature rooibus from my expresso machine, dirty towels, too many chemicals, a white cat with matted fur and tired look with gookie eyes, no coins for laundry, Fiona Apple, Boca burger, wondering this and that: my neighbors relationship with his girlfriend, Lia and her blues, my never to put-off-a-project landlord Linda and her tidy yard, the OctoMom. Today is broken blinds and leaving the door open daring a winter breeze to roll in, getting songs stuck in my head, waiting for my sister to call, lots of water down the sink, letters nedding to be sent soon, Doctor Bonners.
There is a baker opening at Great Harvest, perhaps I should fill out an application? Perhaps if I leave the house sometime today I will. Perhaps I will head downtown and run into so-and-so and find myself in a car with the music good and loud and dirty corners and sandbox floors and there will be somewhere else's to be visited. But I will have to leave me house... I promise to be out by 3:00...

Snowball: a Biography

You hear of people who love their animals.
This is not like Snowball and me, we are seasoned, we are familiar. We are like the couple celebrating their 45th annivesary by watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. We express our love my small kisses and polite conversation over breakfast. Snowball is only 5 years younger than me. At the vet last year I was asked to hold Snowball as they anally probed her with a thermometer. As she struggled the vet assistant told her, "it's okay. don't claw mommy."
I am not Snowball's mommy. More her older sister than her Mommy. And plus she tends to me in a way I tend to her.
I got Snowball when I was 5, the third of all my poor cats that got smacked by cars. The last in a series of stupid road loving kittens. "Let her explore the house," I remember by Dad saying softly as Snowball roamed about, a serious kitten from the beginning, analysing her quarry, quickly establishing a safe haven. I took Snowball to the road and told her to not play in it.
Snowball was never a cat for a child. She should of spent her almost two decades as a lap cat for an old woman or man. Not one to connect with children she spent much of her life under the house or sleeping the blackberry bushes beyond our backyard.
During the flood of 94' Snowball was not to be found until days after the flood waters receeded and ten-year-old me called to her from under the house until she crawled out muddy and alive. The waters rose an inch inside the house, soaking the carpets and warping the floors so how she survived under the house escapes me.
When we moved in 1999 we left Snowball. This sounds harsh, but it was really for the best. For three months my family lived in an out of camp grounds and motels, stayed with family members and waited for our house to be finished in Redmond. There was no special luxury for a cat in transit beyond a small dog kennel, so she was left to the blackberry bushes and a kind neighbor who left a bowl out of Alley Cat (a horrible cheap Canadien cat food). However, I came back to get her after we moved in and though now a feral animal, she came to me and cried the entire 3 hour drive to Redmond.
When I lost my job last month Snowball started working the graveyard shift at the Best Western delivering handtowels to guests for 5 cents a day. And I in turn feed her, change her water frequently, and give her pets.
Snowball enjoys being in the bathroom during a shower. It's her spa time. She especially likes to entertain when someone is going to the bathroom.
But, Snowball is getting old. If we do the math, if she is 5 years younger than me that makes her 18 now.
Her nose bleeds, she pukes. You can see her holding it together, holding together her dignity. She is the graceful elderly hostess that parts the crowd to come up to you and hold your hand for a second to say, "welcome" ever so softly, making you realize whether or not you have a good time at this party, whether or not you get what you are looking for, that warm feeling won't leave you.
My Mom tells me when cats get old their fur gets matted because they can no longer maintain themslves
Snowball never holds herself slovenly. She is not the old woman crumpled in a wheel chair, she never will be. She holds a strong posture even though I can tell it makes her tired.
Snowball won't retire. She will always wake up at a reasonable hour and tend to herself, she won't let in indignity of old age make excuses for her. Even while she sleeps all day she does it atop a pillow, curled into a precise tendril, tight and exact. With great manners she perches on the smallest of tops, overlooking windows.
But Snowball is getting old and everyone can tell. I called her "Bony" the other day because her bones are more prominent. My parents told me last year when I took her to the vet for a cough that I shouldn't spend an exhorbent amount of money on her and to "let her go."

The Fluid Shift from Brain to Machine

Kevin showed me this article once, I believe it was in the Sun, which is a damn fine reliable smart magazine. The article was about me, well, it was about my brain. Not really my brain in particular but the brain I have that other people have as well, and that is a brain formed and shaped by computers.

It cited a study where a group of people, one group computer savvy the other non and got them to explore the internet as scientists studied their brain waves. the group more computer literate would predictable flip from screen to screen and the part of the brain illuminated was the decision making part, the frontal cortex and the group without much experience tended to use the part of their brain reserved for learning, for reading and reflecting. After a few days of study the second group developed the same kind of brain responses as the first group, decision-making, browsing rather than reading.

We are needing our brains less and less. The question in the article was, "are computers rewiring our brains?"

As an observer of my own experiences, hell yes. My spelling is shit. When someone asks me a question I think, "where on the internet can I access this information?" rather than racking my brain for the answer.

Once, when I was about eightish I went to Christian church located in a shopping center in Hillsboro close to Skyliner with my friend Holly. When mass started (sorry, I call it mass, old Catholic habit) the kids were sectioned off and divided into their various age category classes. In our class their was lecture about technology and how someday humans will be asked to have computer chips in their brains, and this and that and it wasn't to far in the future but Christians will resist it and protest and they will be persecuted and pressured.

The Christian resistance movement went right over my head as I excitedly imagined the possibilities of having a computer chip in my brain.

"Will I be able to listen to music?" I thought. "Will I be able to write notes to myself in my brain and print them out later for further assessment?" "Will all my memories be stored so I can access them at any time?"

Perhaps we will have computers chips in our brains. What will that mean? What does it mean right now?

My spelling has become shit. I used to laugh inwardly at my coworkers struggling to spell such words as fettucini and even real doozies like "couldn't" and "brain." Now I find myself second guessing some of my spelling. Every time I spell restaurant I have to pause. It's awful. And I write restaurant almost every single day. I got the word "immediately" spelled wrong on an application writing "immediantly." What the hell?

So, this article, it tells us how we assimilate the information that is out there, taking note of it's location on the web rather than storing the information in our brains. We are getting better at finding information than recalling it and I wonder, is this for the best?

My first reaction is to be critical, no it's not good, the internet is not natural, we are tearing ourselves from the raw natural functions of our brains, stripping away the learning part of our experience and getting straight to the quick answer, where to find it. But it's how I have been learning so much from the internet. . .

For instance, I raped wikipedia in my study of the Bosnian War and believe I squeezed every bit of information out of Youtube videos of a BBC2 documentary on Yugoslavia. I could have never got such concise information searching through a book, exploring the internet was like a injection of information straight to the cortex rather than the slow rubbing of ointments (the act of studying) into the skin. It was wonderful and horrible and easy and awesome.

Do you think Montessori thought of the internet when he considered the his method of learning? Where a child is not required to learn anything but explores the world with a guided hand; learning to read books by handling them and wondering about them and having a guide show them what it is? The internet is a grand Montessori school, it a library with the information of the world resting in it, a library the size of a country if we could see it in a tangible form. A library in almost perfect order.

And I am majorly plugged in. I network on all the major networking sites. I even twitter. I even visit second life from time to time (which is really really lame). My brain feels like it is being reprogrammed. I find myself less patient with reading, satisfied with being surrounded by several sources of information rather than reading one single book. The internet is made for me. It doesn't allow me to become bored. It doesn't allow me to lose interest. When I do there is always something else to look at. Some other part of my mind which selfishly wants to get information.

I don't know what to think of the whole mess actually. I like it. I hate it. I could never live without it. I don't want to live without it. What am I missing? What is happening, really?

Writing

My writing hasn't felt very solid lately. That's the word I was looking for. Solid. They don't feel like they have all the pieces I want in them, they don't feel finished. They feel like you could take some and add some and then it would easily not be mine at all. I am writing something very transparent and vague, my pieces are meek, shruggling and excusing themselves on the page, waiting for you to judge them so they have some meaning, because my writing is requiring and shrinking for your judgment.
Okay, so here's the thing I am not telling Kevin right now. I just told him; this and that, I hate my writing, I'm going to burn my zine la la la and he kind of asks why even though he knows I'm just being dramatic.
I'm not telling him I am ashamed of not being marketable.
Kevin is drawing maps right now. I am blogging. We are listening to Tool. It's the new one. I am drinking wine. Kevin is not drinking wine.
"Would you like me to put some water on?"
shrugs, "if you want. I'd like some. I don't want you to stress yourself out about it."
"why would I stress myself out?"
shakes head. inaudible.
"What's that?"
"Just making sure you want it."
"I just wanted to know if you wanted some.."
"Just didn't want you to be that concerened about my well being. It's been awhile since I've drewn, draw. Since I've drawn."
I put on the water. My tea kettle is yellow. I got it last year for my birthday. 22. I always keep it clean. Sometimes, when I do to other people houses and see dirty tea kettles I feel disgusted. Burned tea kettles, oily tea kettles from being next to frying bacon. A real tea drinker has a spotless kettle.
What I really want to know how to do is write. I want to be able to write. Write well. Writers are magic.
Just about anyone can see something happen. They can watch a car wreck with the same passion as watching a basketball game, they can make love the way they would stand in line at the grocery store. But a writer, aa damn good story teller like Lia or my Dad (who, like Homer, never writes their damn stories down) makes that fucking experience real. And I am not that person. I get lost in the WORDS. The damn words. I trip up on them like a spider in its own web. And then I get even more tangled when go back and edit that shit.
What I'm trying to say is, I can't hash it all, but I don't know what to do exactly... writing is me. It's not just what I've defined myself around, it's the thing that forgoes me from food and water. It's the thing that takes me hours away from this world.
Writing. What the hell.

Lack of Entertainment Amenities at the Carman Family Residence

Sure I like coming home. I like that there is food. There is Grocery Outlet wine and domestic brews. There is a gas fireplace, bone dry towels (a true luxury in mold ridden drafty apartments), exercise equipment, and my sister always has good lime tortilla chips. But there is one thing missing, always missing, and sometimes it makes me think twice about coming over.
In my house there are always books and zines in my bathroom. This is not because I take a long time in the bathroom; I eat lots of fiberous foods as well as fruits. But when I step into the bathroom and sit down, I am suddenly overwhelmed with boredom unmatched by anywhere on the entire planet. I mean, when you go for a walk you don't need a magazine, or when you sit down to look at the cars passing by the window you don't need a magazine but for some reason, whenever you sit on the toilet and spend you 20-30 second on the toilet the boredom is so paralyzing.
And no one in the Carman family residence (except Gary in his apartment with) accomadates the serious need for magazines in bathrooms.
For several reasons every bathroom in the world needs reading bits:

• Boredom often turns into depression
• RBBD (Restless Boredom Bowel Disorder) not being able to shit comfortably without reading material, rushing the shit, which leads to hemmroids
  

Pure Gold

If you want to see pure gold, ask Natalie Vieu, she eats pencils and paper and shits out pure gold. I am not kidding. We got together to show each other zines both of us had written for Spring Break. Hers=Amazing.

Ultimatums

Yesterday at Albertson's I found myself facing two ultimatums.

I came to the store to buy chocolate chips; three dollars in cash with a splash of change amounting to 13 cents. But, as I walked by the wine aisle I found a very good deal on a shiraz. What could I choose?

A night of sleepy, bleary eyes inspired debauchery? Or a night of delicious chocolate chips?

I chose the wine.