I am your Clarice Starling and you are my Hannibal Lector

Dear Scott #8

Dear Scott,

It indicates on your facebook your interests are: Medicine and Firearms. These make for a very interesting doctor, do they not?
Also: you are interested in meeting women on facebook? I wonder what kind of woman you would be interested in? I am a journalist impersonator, but perhaps you are looking for someone impersonating a more prestigious title...
I noticed you also like the Saw series. Namely, 1, 2, 3, and 4. You did not mention Saw 5, why is this? And of course, I find it truly disturbing that you are a doctor impersonator and appreciate the Saw series. And you say you like Falimy Guy. Is this anything like Family Guy?

Still interested,

Rachel

Snowball

Snowball sleeps so hard. Does she know she is old? Such a serious cat...

Today is my sisters birthday

Bernadette's birds nest tea unfolds in my pint glass and my sensitive caffeine-addled brain is making up new scenarios: these late night pool table scenarios and regardless of what Lia might've said I feel ugly. Walking home, several hours of self-actualizing woman-power pep talks with shots of Jager and birthdays and great vibes and I still dissolve like a sugar cube in a rain storm.
My body becomes shapeless as I walk home, I suspect many others do as well. As much as we talk, as much as we laugh, kiss, and shake each other alive - I suspect all of the burdens we throw on the table are carefully refolded and tucked into our hearts. We walk away with them because they're still there - leering. They crawl eagerly back into us and we are obliged to tend to them.
My brain is writing stories. Erotic ones. Cut and dry sex fulfilling enough to substitute food, water, sleep, and conversation. I am tired of having Danielle Steele residing in my hypothalamus. She probably doesn't write her own books anyway.

Wikipedia

Imagine me with my fingers spread wide, the palms of my hands are facing my face, my hands are waving to and from my face quickly. Imagine my mouth in a O shape and my eyes are animated.

I just edited a Wikipedia page. I've never thought this was possible.

While wearing some hot-topic cat-eyed non-prescription glasses yesterday Kevin, stoned, told me, "those glasses are trying to be like those elk-horned glasses people used to wear."

Excuse me? "Elk" horn glasses?

"What are you talking about? These are cat-eyed glasses. There's no such thing as elk horn glasses."

Imagine a pair of glasses made out of the horns of elk. They are wooden-like, weighty, awkward to the face, and have wild antler-like extensions emitting from the sides (include visual).

"Elk horn glasses? Are you sure? Let's look that up."

This is where Wikipedia comes in.

"Oh! You mean "Horn"-rimmed glasses?"

I could see where he made the mistake.

We read the article together and one paragraph caught my attention.

"The glasses continued to be popular through the 1930s, and enjoyed a renaissance in the 1950s when musician Buddy Holly wore a series of large, bulky square pairs on tour and on his album covers. This style-- dominantly in black, although also available in varying shades of tortoiseshell-- remained popular from the late 1950s until the 1970s, when large, steel aviator frames became popular. Round horn-rimmed glasses came back into fashion in the 1980s, with tortoiseshell being fashionable amongst yuppies and a white variant being popular amongst New Wave musicians and New Wave fans."

"Yuppies?! That shouldn't be there! Let's change it!"

So I clicked on "edit" and wrote "intelligent, capital-driven entrepreneurs."

It's still there.

Yeah, people have done this before. No big deal. But I HAVE never done this before and it's important to me to introduce neutrality in all aspects of knowledge.

This night is shit

It's at that point where I can't control my body temperature. Tending towards extremes and right now I am shivering. Maybe shaking?

The world analogious came to mind as I blew a tiny fly off my cupboard door and in simultude thought of feathers. These are analogious things? It came to mind. I'm not sure where I learned that...

No longer an existentialist

It just occurred to me.
At this very moment, reading the John Denver article on Wikipedia that I am no longer an existentialist.
Everything I am is the opposite of an existentialist. Whaaaaaaaaat!?

Dear Scott,
I'm sleepy. What are you doing? Are you still in jail? Sorry, I didn't mean to bring it up again.
Rachel

Rachel Carman

Hey there.
I just looked myself up on google. It tries to correct me. Asks me: Did you mean: Rachel Carson? And I say to myself. No. It tells me about other Rachel Carman's. One has gotten a divorce. On a closer read I find she was the earliest divorce on record in Sangamon County. The lawyer in the divorce case was Abraham Lincoln.
There's a Rachel Carman from Bristol, England who Twitters and likes anime.
Eventually you get to the gold.
Look up Rachel Lee Carman and there you have it. Everything. Even this blog. Which is basically a clean non-pen smeared version of my notebook. So I guess you can't get everything. You can't get my notebook.
But it still asks: Did you mean: Rachel Carson?
She's a tough act to follow, I tell you.

Humble Romanian Home

Do you mind if I don't go into specifics?
Listen. It's like this story of this well meaning town in Belgium who wanted to build a nice little Belgium house for a poor Romanian family who had been exiled or just hated wherever they came from. These precious little Belgium folk built this precious little Belgium house for 4 people: daddy, mommy, and the two babies.
And there was a get together of the Romanian recipients and the Belgium philanthropists and I imagine it being like a Frenchy version of those reality shows where they build someone in need a new house in a ridiculously small amount of time. Except I'm sure the Belgians took their time.
When the Romanians moved in they made some cultural changes to the house.
They pulled the stove into the front lawn.
They pulled the furniture onto the front lawn.
They brought in chickens and pigs.
They brought their entire extended Romanian family.
And for some reason this is not what the people of this small community in Belgium expected.
I don't know the end of the story but I am sure it was something about the Belgians being somewhat regretful of their generosity as it ended being a cultural damper in their frenchy french neighborhoods of little gates, quaint manicured little children, roses and stoves on the inside.
Can I tell you another story?
This one is about a girl that can't say no, about a girl who gives so much and then realizes to late that even after she has stopped giving they are still taking. And so she just wants to go away from all strangers and be with her friends who never take to much and give her what she needs.
Why do I have to be the one to tell the Romanians to keep their chickens from her garden?

I need to quit jobs more often

"I spit on my fingers," she said.
My last day at my resort job: seven hours on a golf cart with rain and wind blowing sideways making hot chocolates for golfers my coworker tells to, "get their brains checked," giving a Coors Lite to VIP brother-of-a certain-sportswear-brand CEO -- I'm the only one who does not acknowledge this as a big deal (his framed picture with blinking Christmas lights adorns the office behind the front desk).
My last day at said resort job I was not allowed to wear my pea-coat or beanie because they're not adorned with a resort jobs logo. An over sized wind breaker is offered which does nothing to retain heat. I hover my hands in a turbo oven and dunk them in the soapy dish water persuading the blood it is safe to return.
And at the end of the day, my supervisor is counting cash and spitting on her fingers. Spit is glistening on the money and I turn away.
Driving home, I hope my interview tomorrow morning goes well.
No. I am bargaining with God as I drive home.

Dear Scott #7

Dear Scott,
Someone told me you have a baby tiger tattoo. I really hope you don't have go to gen pop because I can't imagine that going over well.
Last year I had the flu for three days and watched Season 1 & 2 of Prison Break. The Wentworth Miller character had a tattoo all over his body as a reminder of the blueprints to the prison (and other jail break tips). He totally escaped but then the seasons kept dragging on and on. There was really no need for more episodes. What the hell is Scylla anyway? Prison Break sucks now. The older brother is a bad driver and a meat head.  There are also way too many SUV's.
Are there jail break tips in your baby tiger tattoo?
Curious,
Rachel

Dear God

12:00PM Even agnostics make deals with God. I mean, we're not atheists for chrissakes!

Dead God,

Please give me this job. Your ever doubtful servant.

Rachel

6:00 PM Thank you god.

Dear Scott #6

Dear Scott,

Hey there buddy, how're things?

My friend Natalie and I were thinking about making one of those saint candles for you that they sell at the Cucina as well as the Hispanic aisle at Safeway. We have some sketches lined up and one of us is going to send the company that makes those candles a letter describing what would be best to immortalize yourself in wax form. Problem is, you aren't a saint YET, and you haven't taken the steps to be canonized. Before you are canonized you must be dead. Then you have to wait 5 years after which your case is reviewed by the local Bishop (his name is Robert Vasa and he kind of looks like an older Angels & Demons version of Ewan McGreggor) and a holy investigation into your life begins. People are interviewed and your entire life is reviewed. After this everything gets send to Rome for more analysis but don't worry, you will be dead so I will make sure everything goes according to plan.

One catch here: there has to be proof of a miracle in your name following your death. It would be helpful for someone to come forward besides myself (because I seem rather compromised being so close and all) but, if needs be, I will come up with something.
It would also be helpful if you died a martyr. Keep this in mind.

Love

Rachel

Dear Scott #5

Dear Scott,

I thought of this really lame joke. I hope you like it. Here goes:

What do you get when you mix you (Scott) with Che ...

SCOTCH!! I thought of that on my own...

Rachel

PS: Good picture Natalie

Dear Scott #4

Dear Scott,

Why don't you have a facebook account? It's so difficult cyber stalking you on the local news everyday... plus, they don't have any new information...

Hey Scott, sometimes when I google you I put "Scott Hanson Oregon" and there is another Scott Hanson who makes marine life furniture sculptures! That's pretty cool! In one model he has a manta ray table where there are two manta rays supporting a piece of glass. I think marine life memorbilla is kind of cheesy but it's nice sometimes if you want to renovate your coastal get-away.

Thanks for being there,

Rachel

Dear Scott #3

Dear Scott,

When the newspapers said you might of had a dental office in your house all I could think was, "where were you when I needed that root canal last year?!" Seriously, Scott! I am still paying off that fricking root canal that costed close to two thousand dollars!! For a person without dental insurance this all comes out of pocket. And I want to go travel! I want to save my money and fly to Ireland, fall in love and have wee ones! My sexiest years are unraveling as I work day in and day out to pay off this root canal debt! Not sexy!

Next time, when I need a root canal, you better not be living in the obscurity of Crooked River Ranch. You better have an established dental impersonator office down the street from my house. There's a really nice one off of Newport, a renovated video rental store. You could get that one! With all the money rolling in from desperate times desperate measures patients you could make 100 bucks an hour and the door would be swinging!

Your ever faithful fan,

Rachel

Dear Scott #2

Dear Scott,

Do you ever wish you were Scott Hamilton? He was a goddamn good figure skater. Remember when he would flirt with the judges and do back flips in competitions even when they were banned? Not only was he an orpahn but he could do a triple axle like a fricking angel!

But I guess it's easier pretending you're a doctor than a figure skater. I don't know much about either fields; figure skating or medicine but I'm pretty sure it takes more than a full spandex get-up with sequins to convince me of a good figure skater. If your a pro, you got to know what they hell you're doing.

As for impersonating a doctor, pretty much all you need is a lab coat and some complicated medical jargon off the top of your head. And Lord knows I'm not a good judge.

Maybe next time...

Rachel

Dear Scott #1

Dear Scott,

The local news keeps showing pictures of you and they really chinzed out this time and are zooming up on yearbook photos. There is one really awful one of you on what looks like a spirit day. For this I have suspicion that if the authorities ever find something on me the news channel is definetely going to do the same thing; find a picture of myself in the Redmond High School year book and zoom up on it. Or, if I ever died, god forbid, the picture they would use on my casket would be my High School track photo.

Did you ever think of getting some staged pictures in your repertoire, Scott? How about taking some pictures so they didn't have to use your old yearbook photos and that "fresh off the streets" mugshot photo they are spreading everywhere? What if you had an epic picture of yourself with your hand in someones chest, pumping their heart like they did that one time on Grey's Anatomy? Or cradling a crying child with a blazing fire in the background? It might have been wise to get some sweet pictures of you with your doctors lab coat and some equipment. A stethoscope around the neck against an azul backdrop would of made for a good shot.

Just some ideas my friend.

Rachel

The stupid lady

When I was five the neighbor kids, my sister, and I did this kind-of mean thing.

They had this great fort in their backyard and we would take the cordless phone and the phone book from the house and sit around in a circle making prank phone calls and laughing until we peed our pants. Ordering pizzas from furniture stores. That one really got us.

Sometimes we just dialed random numbers until we got, who we called, "the stupid lady."

I still don't know what this lady is called. Not the operator. Just the lady that tells you, "The number you have dialed blah blah blah so please hang up and try your call again."

She was always so polite. So pleasantly direct and informative. Her professionalism never waivered.

This is why it was particularly funny when we would pass the phone around the circle and hurl insults at her, literally shouting:

"YOU STUPID LADY!" we would scream. "YOU'RE SUCH A STUPID IDIOT!! WHY DO YOU KEEP ANSWERING THE PHONE!?!" "SHUT UP YOU STUPID LADY!!!" "I HATE YOU YOU'RE UGLY!!" "GO DIE YOU STUPID LADY!!"

We would laugh so hard as she ignored our violent cursings, remaining collected and sticking with her original script. "The number you have dialed..." she would say, every time.

"I wonder what that stupid lady is thinking when we call her," one of the neighbor kids would pant, out of breath, laughing so hard.

Though I was certain, in my five-year old brain, the stupid lady was a voice recording, I had never entertained the slim possibility she was actually a real person. A person we were spewing the most filth and profanity our 3-7 year-old brains could come up with.

For me, after this, the game was ruined.

When the phone was passed to me I would try to "soften" my insults,

"You are such a stupid lady. You stupid lady. Why don't you shoot yourself in your brain you stupid lady." All the while I thinking, "Why are you being so nice! Stand up for yourself! Don't take this!"

I imagined her going home to her husband, perhaps the man who reads books on tape. The stupid lady pours herself a short glass of chardonnay (her voice hasn't felt the sting of harsh heavy drinking) and settles on the couch.

"How was work?" her husband says, every word smooth and perfectly articulated.

She sighs. "These kids keep calling ... for hours they call and just yell at me and call me stupid... ugly... tell me to kill myself..."

Her husband, his perfect blonde haired blue-eyed husband, massages her perfect shoulders,

"You know darling, you can always stay home ... we can start a family."

The stupid lady stiffens. He's brought this up before. She's an independent woman, she could never be at the whim of her husband's money... his domain-- tidying the house, waiting for him to come home, entertaining herself with gossip magazines. She must be ready at all times to take her life into her own hands. And kids ... never.

"No, darling ... no." and later they make love and her perfect brown hair sprawls across satin sheets, the troubles of the day forgotten.

I hope so anyway.

Sometimes I think about finding a land line and dialing a random number. "The number you have dialed..." the stupid lady would say in a voice strained by almost twenty years of hard liquor and cigarette smoking. "I'm sorry" I say and she pauses immediately recognizing my voice. We'll start to cry.

Soon after we meet up and I'll hold the stupid lady's perfect shaking shoulders as she sobs at having never had children because of us, how her husband left her for the operator lady, how she has lung cancer now because she started smoking cigarettes. But she'll forgive me, because I'm all she has and she begins to call me daughter. Daily visits to the hospital we talk about those days when I would call her line as a kid and the stupid lady would say "I sure wanted to wring you kids up!" and we burst out laughing at the pun. She tells me how the telephone business sure isn't what it used to be and I say, "yeah, life was simple then," she agrees taking an inhale from her cigarette and we become silent.

Everyday until the stupid lady died I would take care of her like my own mother. Care for her until her last breath sounds forms into a smile. At the eulogy I talk about the whole story, putting it into a neat little box for friends and family who became estranged from the stupid lady during her hard times.

The marble tombstone I would have personalized for her would read:

The Stupid Lady

(year of birth and departure)

She wasn't so stupid.

Her only mistake was being too nice,

to the wrong people.

Outrage and Dumpster Diving.

Once, I casually mentioned a dumpster diving experience to my parents. Midway through my story, not even letting me tell it, they threw up their hands,
"Why?!" they demanded.
"Are you hungry? Do you not have money? Why would you need to do that?!"
I couldn't tell them.
I told them I did it because it was there - that I knew for certain.
But much later, it dawned on me. Me, dumpster diving, it was their fault. Or my grandmother's fault I suppose.
While I was some impressionable age - 4 or 5 or 6 Grand (my grandma who prefers this title) stayed with us for sometime following her two year stint in Sierra Leone. As a child, eating dinner I would push my plate away and fuss that I was full after a couple of bites.
My grandma would glance up with a look of calm fury,
"Oh no you're not," she would say and tell me about the children in the village in Sierra Leone where she stayed; how they hardly had any food, how they would fight for food, how the people were starving. And I would eat my food until my stomach was so full I felt sick.
One thing I've never thought in any way funny, is when people make off-hand comments about "the kids in Africa" or "starving kids in Africa" when they are throwing food away.
When I worked in a restaurant, for example, and would ask people if they wanted me to box up their food they would say, "No, I don't like leftovers. Sorry kids in Africa."
It looks I'm smiling but I'm really grinding my teeth.
I dumpster dive because the food is there, and it shouldn't be.
The idea of having a seed planted in the earth and growing to it's full harvest and then being put in the dumpster makes me crazy. Bread really gets me. Grain is grown, harvested, ground up, formed into something magnificent; a beautiful final product; a roll or a baguette and no one buys it that day so it is thrown out.
Or the broken circle of having a cow, feeding it all it's life, slaughtering it, and then tossing it in the trash makes me crazy. Doesn't it make you crazy? Even just the small bits - like one little shrimp - a whole life in it's own tossed out because some stupid spoiled undeserving human is bored of it.
Mom and Dad, I dumpster dive because Grand put this crazy notion in my head that people are out their starving and somehow it makes it better when I finish all my food and don't throw anything out. I dumpster dive because there shouldn't be any good food in the trash and there is. So there.

This morning I

This morning I

woke up and saw my

heart beat in two little

tassels on my bed

As I lay under the covers
the vibration of my heart

beat transcended

from my body to the bed

to the two little

receptors I tried to hold

my breath, stay still but

they still shook ever so

slightly 70 beats per

minute? The bed and the

blankets were warm -

Kevin next to me was

warm - unnecessarily

warm - like a furnace

on a summers day - like

he's supposed too, like

I need him to be for

other reasons and times

And so rarely do I

feel this sad enjoyment of

life - this preemptive

longing for it - as if I am

dead and looking back

at a sliver of a fraction

of an experience like

a ghost haunting my

own past, trying to

remember what it was

to be alive and missing it

so much and suspending

the fact that I am alive

and loving it so much

Today is Monday - and

I'm in bed with Kevin and

I am more in love with

him than he is with

me

but today is Monday and

the traffic on Portland

is fair and the sky is blue and the bed is warm.