A DAILY LIFE

Lady Sings The Blues

2012-02-12T05:56:00.011-07:00

1. Mercy / Duffy

2. Born to Die / Lana Del Rey

3. Settle Down / Kimbra

4. Little Talks / Of Monsters And Men

Cafe Gratitude

2012-02-11T13:27:00.034-07:00

Cafe Gratitude is a running joke in the Bay Area-- a joint where giving thanks is taken to the extreme. Everything on the menu is a variation on the "I am _______" theme. Think about ordering the "I am luscious" and you'll get a sense of the place.

Only in California, right?

But I gotta say...

Sometimes so many blessings pile up in a day that it's all I can do not to get down on my knees by the side of the road and take in the wonder of it all.

Maybe it's the Californian in me.

In any case, today it hit me like a ton of bricks: I am so dang grateful for the wonderful people that NOLS has brought into my life.

This morning --after bumbling around the house in a daze of earliness and inadvertently waking Rathke up-- I got to start out the day trading wandering thoughts with her over coffee in the kitchen, both of us bleary-eyed and pajama-clad.

THEN I got to catch up with Yost at Apple Valley Market. More coffee. We wrote a list of things we wanted to remember to talk about, checking off topics as we went: "Our Lives as Artists", "Downsizing", "The Seven Principles That Make Marriage Work", "My Plans For Your Future".

AND THEN, on an afternoon walk, we came across men in fatigues surveying the scene at City Park from atop various tank turrets. Clair, small and bright in her turquoise puffy, walked up to one gentleman and after some frank questioning --she with her head thrown back to look up at him and him fumbling to take off his helmet and earphones to hear her-- came back to us with the cheerful report, "They're guarding us!" Waving in their direction, we continued on our way.

I am seriously lucky, people.

NOLS barely pays a living wage but when I think of all the benefits --like this amazing community I get to be a part of-- I really couldn't be any better compensated for my labors.

So I'll take an order of "I am filthy rich" please.

Maurice Sendak Is A Dead Ringer For My Grandmother...

2012-02-03T18:35:00.009-07:00

I kid you not. If she were alive and a gay man, there'd be no telling them apart. It's uncanny.

Old School Meets New School

2012-02-01T15:26:00.003-07:00

A horse named Blazer was hitched to the bike rack outside Wyoming Catholic College today-- a bit of magic waiting just around the corner as I headed home from the NOLS Big House for lunch.

Advertising With A Conscience

2012-01-29T03:54:00.018-07:00

Legas Delany created a series of leaves that speak volumes for Plant for the Planet...

Ocean Plastic: Just because you don't see it doesn't mean it isn't there.

And from Advertisers Without Borders for the Topsy Foundation...

Before and After

There is good in this world.

Just as there is bad and everything else in between and at once.

Abigail Nason Patterson Hits It Out Of The Park...

2012-01-28T09:19:00.027-07:00

Zug has been playing with greeting card ideas lately. She took these pictures with her phone to show me what she's been up to, so the image quality isn't there, BUT I went ape when I saw them anyways! I feel utterly blessed to have such an amazing artist in my life.

Looking at these makes me think of Spain, and digging my hands into soil, and folk traditions, and sunshine on my face, and alpine zones, and Annie's garden. In other words, they simply make me happy. I want Abby to make 498,736,322 more and send them all to me so I can wallpaper my life with them.

It's The Year Of The Dragon...

2012-01-23T13:00:00.023-07:00

I wish I was on the streets of Chinatown in New York City or San Francisco today, welcoming in the New Year amidst swirling parades and firecrackers.

I miss all the hubbub and pageantry of festivity spilled into public space.

Time to clean house, look for red envelopes heralding prosperity in the the seasons to come, and usher in the Year of the Dragon.

Happy Chinese New Year!

Praise Be To Sam

2012-01-18T15:35:00.015-07:00

First, my brother introduced me to Aloe Blacc and Marion Black. Now I want to listen to them forever. Until I die. Really.

Then my brother told me my life lacked a consuming addiction to the new Masterpiece Theater production, Downton Abbey. He was right.

The take home point here (clearly) is that my brother is in possession of some crazy good taste. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding.

P.S. Sam lives in Portland.

Nightime Is Magic

2012-01-02T15:10:00.011-07:00

These photographs showed up on Colossal-- that art and design blog I've been raving about because IT MAKES LIFE BETTER.

These are fireflies mating after thunderstorms in the Chūgoku forest of Japan during the summer rainy season.

enchantment [ɪnˈtʃɑːntmənt] n. 1. captivation 2. a feeling of great liking for something wonderful and unusual.

Toasting The New Year

2012-01-01T16:24:00.003-07:00

“It’s never too late or early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit... you can change or stay the same, there are no rules. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ice, Semis And Wind... Oh, My!

2011-12-31T17:13:00.006-07:00

Evan and I got back to Lander in time to go to bed (nursing colds) well before folks here ring in 2012.

We have been in Colorado celebrating a friend's wedding, which was beautiful despite the cold temperatures, snow flurries and high winds that characterized our travels. Coming home, I was white-knuckled behind the wheel as we ran a gauntlet of overturned semi-trucks (eight in all) along the I-80 corridor near Elk Mountain. Although it's wicked cold now, it turns out we missed some exquisitely warm days while we were away-- the snow median that was at least three feet tall on Amoretti Street before we left has melted away to a strip of ice.

Our town will celebrate the turning of the year buried under ice flows.

A Teacher's Role

2011-12-27T09:43:00.033-07:00

Are fourth graders capable of solving the problems of the world?

John Hunter believes that they are. He also believes that it's an imperative they start practicing now.

He reminds me of the many inspirational teachers I have been blessed to have as mentors in my life. I owe those individuals a huge debt of gratitude for their faith in my capacity. I forever stand on their shoulders.

John Trapasso, my seventh grade history teacher:

He came back from India alight with a passion for Hindi culture and blew my mind with the concept of reincarnation. He was notorious for the hand cramps you'd get writing essays hovering around twenty pages during in-class exams.

Victor Fink, my grade school music teacher:

I don't remember learning anything about music in his class, but vividly recall how he captivated and terrified us in equal measure with his rendition of The Monkey's Paw and delighted us with open-book tests that included questions like, "Who is buried in Grant's Tomb?" and "What color was Napoleon's white horse?" Mr. Fink taught us that sometimes the best thing to do is to flaunt convention.

Joana Bryar-Matons, my high school Spanish teacher:

The record spun and out flowed beautiful music and poetry which we would translate on the fly. If we proved distracted or slow on the uptake, she'd look to the ceiling and swear, "I shit on God!" in Catalan.

Leroy Votto, my high school history teacher:

His ability to bring history to life by immersing us in primary sources was nothing short of breathtaking. His patience and trust in our innate goodness and humanity came in a close second. His genuine curiosity takes third.

Richard Lautze, my high school teacher of many hats:

I have yet to meet anyone as committed to experiential education-- a concept that has informed every aspect of my life since my initial introduction. I am still amazed and humbled that he saw in me not only a student, but a peer.

Lon Abbott, my college geology teacher:

His short shorts and ability to hike the Grand Canyon rim to rim at the speed of light left me in awe. His skill presenting geology as a story of revolution, rich in metaphor, left me with a deeper spiritual appreciation of nature.

David Lovejoy, my college outdoor education teacher:

True to his name, his warmth made the wilderness accessible for me. He was the competent, feminine-style role model I needed in order to believe in my own ability to be a leader in the outdoors.

Mark Twain said, "Really great people make you feel that you, too, can become great." These are a few of the teachers who have made me feel capable of greatness.

A Majesty Not Mindful Of Man

2011-12-26T13:16:00.000-07:00

Jazz Age Silence

2011-12-24T10:27:00.019-07:00

The ambitious project: a silent film made in 2011 about Hollywood in 1927.

I am über curious to see how it turned out.

A Holiday Card For The Ages

2011-12-22T12:42:00.011-07:00

Mandy and Brian? Basically creative GENIUSES!

This holiday confection is simply too good not to share. It's the Winter Solstice AND the 3rd Night of Hanukkah after all.

Happy festive times, folks!!

Trash Transformed

2011-12-21T12:10:00.002-07:00

In exploring the world's largest landfill outside of Rio de Janeiro, Brazilian artist, Vik Muniz, was inspired by the catadores who sort through tons of refuse each day for recyclable materials to sell.

He took portraits of the men and women he befriended in iconic poses and projected these images onto the floor of a gigantic studio space in the city. The catadores themselves then recreated their own portraits by reclaiming garbage for the purpose.

Proceeds from the resulting art generated $250,000 USD for the Association of Recycling Pickers of Jardim Gramacho-- a community organization and union of sorts for catadores in Rio.

This story was captured on film by Lucy Walker and turned into a movie called "Wasteland", which has made its way onto Netflix.

There is beauty to be found in transformation and reclamation.

Uh, Huh...

2011-12-20T11:34:00.008-07:00

It's the first night, people.

Domestic Partners

2011-12-15T17:18:00.006-07:00

So today at work, Evan got down on one knee and asked me to be his domestic partner so we could save around $780 next year on health insurance. It was all very romantic.

Then it hit me (as I was in the middle of doing bent-knee wipers at the gym) that we had been blasé about a process that is as far as some couples ever get to legally go together.

A sobering thought that makes me appreciate all the more the joy inherent in the gay marriages that have been fully recognized in the eyes of the law.

These two newlywed shots are from a wonderful series that appeared in New York Magazine.

Appearances Can Be Deceiving

2011-12-14T19:54:00.002-07:00

Props to any artist who comes up with a solid concept and renders it beautifully.

Hence, I am a fan of Kyle Bean with his harmless weapons and philosophical chickens.

Discovered via the art + design blog, Colossal.

'Tis The Season

2011-12-11T07:29:00.020-07:00

Samba Dreidel / Pacha Massive

The Christmas Song / The Raveonettes

Soulful Christmas / James Brown

Christmas Morning Blues / Victoria Spivey

Ain't Nothin' Like Christmas, Baby / Shelby Lynne

Twas the Night Before Christmas / Family Force Five

I've Got Christmas By The Tail / Dan Hicks

Aires De Navidad / Willie Colon & Hector Lavoe

The Struggle Bus

2011-12-06T15:47:00.008-07:00

These superb portraits of homeless men and women by Lee Jeffries put my rides on the Struggle Bus, as Rathke puts it, into perspective.

Oh, Right. That Thing Called...

2011-12-04T13:10:00.002-07:00

A year ago, we celebrated the Winter of Magic.

This year, we're ringing in the Winter of Stoke.

Nature Deficit Disorder

2011-12-03T14:40:00.012-07:00

Lately, I've been almost exclusively an indoor creature.

I knew things were bad when the beauty of the Popo Agie outside the floor to ceiling windows of the dentist's office proved utterly captivating as my teeth were scraped clean and then stayed with me as the most moving part of my day.

I miss the nature.

Clearly, I just need to get out more. The freezing temperatures and dearth of daylight hours, however, have got me stumped.

That said, Evan makes getting outside to play despite the desk job look easy... so there's hope! I have a lot to learn from that man.

How To Live A Life

2011-12-02T19:08:00.012-07:00

It's all about respecting your elders...

Knowing this to be true, David Brooks

went and asked a bunch of old folk to share

thoughts on the course of their lives.

The resulting article is an interesting read.

Livin' In The Cowboy State

2011-11-25T08:59:00.003-07:00

Yup. That's my guy... multitasking.

Say What?!

2011-11-24T20:11:00.001-07:00

I'm grateful for bodies in lyrical motion.

A Sense of Color And Style

2011-11-15T18:09:00.014-07:00

God love these classy broads from Nina Nolte's series of paintings titled The Best Is Yet To Come. In my mind, they all have accents from New York or New Jersey-- no mystery there!!

Veteran's Day

2011-11-11T12:43:00.005-07:00

The closest I've come to understanding the experience of going to war has been through friends who have and do serve in the military... and books. That said, some of the reads have been good ones. Some have left me proud-- stories of ethical individuals demonstrating humanity while using force overseas (The Heart and The Fist). Some have left me entertained-- stories of intrigue, impressive skill and fancy toys (Rogue Warrior). Some have left me humbled-- stories of the price men and women have paid in the line of duty (The Things They Carried and Unbroken). Thank you, veterans, for your courage in the name of service.

A Sister's Eulogy

2011-11-05T12:32:00.000-06:00

Mona Simpson on Steve Jobs:

I grew up as an only child, with a single mother. Because we were poor and because I knew my father had emigrated from Syria, I imagined he looked like Omar Sharif. I hoped he would be rich and kind and would come into our lives (and our not yet furnished apartment) and help us. Later, after I’d met my father, I tried to believe he’d changed his number and left no forwarding address because he was an idealistic revolutionary, plotting a new world for the Arab people.

 Even as a feminist, my whole life I’d been waiting for a man to love,  who could love me. For decades, I’d thought that man would be my father.  When I was 25, I met that man and he was my brother.        
 By then, I lived in New York, where I was trying to write my first  novel. I had a job at a small magazine in an office the size of a  closet, with three other aspiring writers. When one day a lawyer called  me — me, the middle-class girl from California who hassled the boss to  buy us health insurance — and said his client was rich and famous and  was my long-lost brother, the young editors went wild. This was 1985 and  we worked at a cutting-edge literary magazine, but I’d fallen into the  plot of a Dickens novel and really, we all loved those best. The lawyer  refused to tell me my brother’s name and my colleagues started a betting  pool. The leading candidate: John Travolta. I secretly hoped for a  literary descendant of Henry James — someone more talented than I,  someone brilliant without even trying.        
 When I met Steve, he was a guy my age in jeans, Arab- or Jewish-looking and handsomer than Omar Sharif.        
 We took a long walk — something, it happened, that we both liked to do. I  don’t remember much of what we said that first day, only that he felt  like someone I’d pick to be a friend. He explained that he worked in  computers.        
 I didn’t know much about computers. I still worked on a manual Olivetti typewriter.        
 I told Steve I’d recently considered my first purchase of a computer: something called the Cromemco.        
 Steve told me it was a good thing I’d waited. He said he was making something that was going to be insanely beautiful.        
 I want to tell you a few things I learned from Steve, during three  distinct periods, over the 27 years I knew him. They’re not periods of  years, but of states of being. His full life. His illness. His dying.         
 Steve worked at what he loved. He worked really hard. Every day.        
 That’s incredibly simple, but true.        
 He was the opposite of absent-minded.        
 He was never embarrassed about working hard, even if the results were  failures. If someone as smart as Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit trying,  maybe I didn’t have to be.        
 When he got kicked out of Apple, things were painful. He told me about a  dinner at which 500 Silicon Valley leaders met the then-sitting  president. Steve hadn’t been invited.        
 He was hurt but he still went to work at Next. Every single day.        
 Novelty was not Steve’s highest value. Beauty was.        
 For an innovator, Steve was remarkably loyal. If he loved a shirt, he’d  order 10 or 100 of them. In the Palo Alto house, there are probably  enough black cotton turtlenecks for everyone in this church.        
 He didn’t favor trends or gimmicks. He liked people his own age.        
 His philosophy of aesthetics reminds me of a quote that went something  like this: “Fashion is what seems beautiful now but looks ugly later;  art can be ugly at first but it becomes beautiful later.”        
 Steve always aspired to make beautiful later.        
 He was willing to be misunderstood.        
 Uninvited to the ball, he drove the third or fourth iteration of his  same black sports car to Next, where he and his team were quietly  inventing the platform on which Tim Berners-Lee would write the program  for the World Wide Web.        

 Steve was like a girl in the amount of time he spent talking about love.  Love was his supreme virtue, his god of gods. He tracked and worried  about the romantic lives of the people working with him.
Whenever he saw a man he thought a woman might find dashing, he called out, "Hey are you single? Do you wanna come to dinner with my sister?"

I remember when he phoned the day he met Laurene. “There’s this beautiful woman and she’s really smart and she has this dog and I’m going to marry her.”

When Reed was born, he began gushing and never stopped. He was a physical dad, with each of his children. He fretted over Lisa’s boyfriends and Erin’s travel and skirt lengths and Eve’s safety around the horses she adored.

None of us who attended Reed’s graduation party will ever forget the scene of Reed and Steve slow dancing.

His abiding love for Laurene sustained him. He believed that love happened all the time, everywhere. In that most important way, Steve was never ironic, never cynical, never pessimistic. I try to learn from that, still.

Steve had been successful at a young age, and he felt that had isolated him. Most of the choices he made from the time I knew him were designed to dissolve the walls around him. A middle-class boy from Los Altos, he fell in love with a middle-class girl from New Jersey. It was important to both of them to raise Lisa, Reed, Erin and Eve as grounded, normal children. Their house didn’t intimidate with art or polish; in fact, for many of the first years I knew Steve and Lo together, dinner was served on the grass, and sometimes consisted of just one vegetable. Lots of that one vegetable. But one. Broccoli. In season. Simply prepared. With the just the right, recently snipped, herb.

Even as a young millionaire, Steve always picked me up at the airport. He’d be standing there in his jeans.

When a family member called him at work, his secretary Linetta answered, “Your dad’s in a meeting. Would you like me to interrupt him?”

When Reed insisted on dressing up as a witch every Halloween, Steve, Laurene, Erin and Eve all went wiccan.

They once embarked on a kitchen remodel; it took years. They cooked on a hotplate in the garage. The Pixar building, under construction during the same period, finished in half the time. And that was it for the Palo Alto house. The bathrooms stayed old. But — and this was a crucial distinction — it had been a great house to start with; Steve saw to that.

This is not to say that he didn’t enjoy his success: he enjoyed his success a lot, just minus a few zeros. He told me how much he loved going to the Palo Alto bike store and gleefully realizing he could afford to buy the best bike there.

And he did.

Steve was humble. Steve liked to keep learning.

Once, he told me if he’d grown up differently, he might have become a mathematician. He spoke reverently about colleges and loved walking around the Stanford campus. In the last year of his life, he studied a book of paintings by Mark Rothko, an artist he hadn’t known about before, thinking of what could inspire people on the walls of a future Apple campus.

Steve cultivated whimsy. What other C.E.O. knows the history of English and Chinese tea roses and has a favorite David Austin rose?

He had surprises tucked in all his pockets. I’ll venture that Laurene will discover treats — songs he loved, a poem he cut out and put in a drawer — even after 20 years of an exceptionally close marriage. I spoke to him every other day or so, but when I opened The New York Times and saw a feature on the company’s patents, I was still surprised and delighted to see a sketch for a perfect staircase.

With his four children, with his wife, with all of us, Steve had a lot of fun.

He treasured happiness.

Then, Steve became ill and we watched his life compress into a smaller circle. Once, he’d loved walking through Paris. He’d discovered a small handmade soba shop in Kyoto. He downhill skied gracefully. He cross-country skied clumsily. No more.

Eventually, even ordinary pleasures, like a good peach, no longer appealed to him.

 Yet, what amazed me, and what I learned from his illness, was how much was still left after so much had been taken away.        
 I remember my brother learning to walk again, with a chair. After his  liver transplant, once a day he would get up on legs that seemed too  thin to bear him, arms pitched to the chair back. He’d push that chair  down the Memphis hospital corridor towards the nursing station and then  he’d sit down on the chair, rest, turn around and walk back again. He  counted his steps and, each day, pressed a little farther.        
 Laurene got down on her knees and looked into his eyes.        
 “You can do this, Steve,” she said. His eyes widened. His lips pressed into each other.        
 He tried. He always, always tried, and always with love at the core of that effort. He was an intensely emotional man.        
 I realized during that terrifying time that Steve was not enduring the  pain for himself. He set destinations: his son Reed’s graduation from  high school, his daughter Erin’s trip to Kyoto, the launching of a boat  he was building on which he planned to take his family around the world  and where he hoped he and Laurene would someday retire.        
 Even ill, his taste, his discrimination and his judgment held. He went  through 67 nurses before finding kindred spirits and then he completely  trusted the three who stayed with him to the end. Tracy. Arturo. Elham.         
 One time when Steve had contracted a tenacious pneumonia his doctor  forbid everything — even ice. We were in a standard I.C.U. unit. Steve,  who generally disliked cutting in line or dropping his own name,  confessed that this once, he’d like to be treated a little specially.         
 I told him: Steve, this is special treatment.        
 He leaned over to me, and said: “I want it to be a little more special.”        
 Intubated, when he couldn’t talk, he asked for a notepad. He sketched  devices to hold an iPad in a hospital bed. He designed new fluid  monitors and x-ray equipment. He redrew that not-quite-special-enough  hospital unit. And every time his wife walked into the room, I watched  his smile remake itself on his face.        
 For the really big, big things, you have to trust me, he wrote on his sketchpad. He looked up. You have to.        
 By that, he meant that we should disobey the doctors and give him a piece of ice.        
 None of us knows for certain how long we’ll be here. On Steve’s better  days, even in the last year, he embarked upon projects and elicited  promises from his friends at Apple to finish them. Some boat builders in  the Netherlands have a gorgeous stainless steel hull ready to be  covered with the finishing wood. His three daughters remain unmarried,  his two youngest still girls, and he’d wanted to walk them down the  aisle as he’d walked me the day of my wedding.        
 We all — in the end — die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.        
 I suppose it’s not quite accurate to call the death of someone who lived  with cancer for years unexpected, but Steve’s death was unexpected for  us.        
 What I learned from my brother’s death was that character is essential: What he was, was how he died.        
 Tuesday morning, he called me to ask me to hurry up to Palo Alto. His  tone was affectionate, dear, loving, but like someone whose luggage was  already strapped onto the vehicle, who was already on the beginning of  his journey, even as he was sorry, truly deeply sorry, to be leaving us.         
 He started his farewell and I stopped him. I said, “Wait. I’m coming. I’m in a taxi to the airport. I’ll be there.”        
 “I’m telling you now because I’m afraid you won’t make it on time, honey.”        
 When I arrived, he and his Laurene were joking together like partners  who’d lived and worked together every day of their lives. He looked into  his children’s eyes as if he couldn’t unlock his gaze.        
 Until about 2 in the afternoon, his wife could rouse him, to talk to his friends from Apple.        
 Then, after awhile, it was clear that he would no longer wake to us.        
 His breathing changed. It became severe, deliberate, purposeful. I could  feel him counting his steps again, pushing farther than before.        
 This is what I learned: he was working at this, too. Death didn’t happen to Steve, he achieved it.        
 He told me, when he was saying goodbye and telling me he was sorry, so  sorry we wouldn’t be able to be old together as we’d always planned,  that he was going to a better place.        
 Dr. Fischer gave him a 50/50 chance of making it through the night.        
 He made it through the night, Laurene next to him on the bed sometimes  jerked up when there was a longer pause between his breaths. She and I  looked at each other, then he would heave a deep breath and begin again.         
 This had to be done. Even now, he had a stern, still handsome profile,  the profile of an absolutist, a romantic. His breath indicated an  arduous journey, some steep path, altitude.        
 He seemed to be climbing.        
 But with that will, that work ethic, that strength, there was also sweet  Steve’s capacity for wonderment, the artist’s belief in the ideal, the  still more beautiful later.        
 Steve’s final words, hours earlier, were monosyllables, repeated three times.        
 Before embarking, he’d looked at his sister Patty, then for a long time  at his children, then at his life’s partner, Laurene, and then over  their shoulders past them.        
 Steve’s final words were:        
 OH WOW. OH WOW. OH WOW.     

The Sickness

2011-10-28T07:57:00.020-06:00

That shaggy-haired fellow in the green shirt? HE'S COMING HOME FROM INDIA TODAY! The genius behind this video? One talented mofo by the name of Kyle Duba.

Oh, Thank GOD!

2011-10-25T18:59:00.017-06:00

Amy is moving in.

With her, come joys like this:

Life is good.

And better for having Rathke in it.

A Kanye, Adele and Jay-Z teaming up kind of happy.

That's seriously happy.

The Mortal Instruments

2011-10-13T00:12:00.001-06:00

I know your streets, sweet city,
I know the demons and angels that flock and roost
in your boughs like birds.
I know you, river, as if you flowed through my heart.
I am your warrior daughter.
There are letters made of your body
as a fountain is made of water.
There are languages of which you are the blueprint
and as we speak them the city rises.

by Elka Cloke

Thank you, Erin, for introducing me to my latest stay-up-till-all-hours-of-the-night-reading addiction. What can I say? I have a soft spot for the young adult fantasy genre. Apt that I am talking about a series called TMI, eh?

Playing With Food

2011-10-12T00:07:00.005-06:00

At least by now it's clear I am on a perspective kick (binge... call it what you will). Why stop now??

Continuing in that vein, I love this series of Lilliputan scenes Christopher Boffoli created...

"Orphans Preferred"

2011-10-11T00:02:00.001-06:00

I am waiting for a letter from San Francisco to arrive at our doorstep and am reminded that mail --even overnight mail-- takes an old school amount of time to get here. Lander, and maybe Wyoming in general, is decidedly nonconformist when it comes to modern day postal service norms.

In an effort to put things into context for me, my mom sent me this old advertisement for the Pony Express that claims they could courier a letter from Missouri to the coast in ten days or less. THAT'S AMAZING and about the pace mail travels here to this day. See?! Perspective changes everything.

Exploration Vs. Exploitation

2011-10-10T13:31:00.013-06:00

I hear tell it's Columbus Day. Which begs the question-- How do you look at the man, the myth, and the legend? There are so many different perspectives to choose from...

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

I love how history often tells us more about the historian than the subject of the story.

Not Giving An Ounce Of Fuck

2011-10-09T14:58:00.017-06:00

Bukowski said, "There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I'm too tough for him. I say, 'Stay in there. I'm not going to let anybody see you.' There's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out, but I'm too clever. I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, 'I know that you're there, so don't be sad.' Then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there. I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep. But I don't weep, do you?"

I do.

Nin said, "The day comes when the risk to remain tight in a bud is greater than the risk it takes to bloom."

All of which would be greatly helped (the risk taking and the suffering alike) by adopting the following attitude when it comes to fear...

A Newly Frugal Gal Struggles With Opulent Thoughts

2011-10-08T09:20:00.004-06:00

Ingredients in the room of my childhood dreams...

Hand-painted wallpaper scenes of exotic locales.

A weathered old four-poster bed.

Sheets embroidered with Mongol poppies, birds of paradise and such.

A gilt sunburst. Of course.

Two of these wing chairs covered in a rich burgundy, aubergine or royal purple.

A trunk full of dress up clothes and other assorted treasures.

And adventure luggage, if only for trips down the hall or out into the yard.

It Takes A Village

2011-10-05T19:15:00.032-06:00

This is what my heart feels like right now-- all multicolored, delicate and aflutter.

Big mistakes require big help and I made and received both recently. I am truly grateful for that. Holy hell, though! The knowledge that I am so loved by so many so well despite my faults leaves me profoundly humbled.

I hope to prove worthy of my family's support, forgiveness and esteem. Learning to extend those same gifts to myself when I stumble is also on the to-do list.

Creative Juices

2011-10-04T12:21:00.012-06:00

You couldn't squeeze even a little creativity out of me right now-- I'm struggling just to keep my eyes open!

These two men, however, are awash in the stuff.

And thank god for that.

Negotiating The Friendly Skies

2011-10-03T13:03:00.015-06:00

The world of airline reservations quickly becomes a byzantine nightmare (in my humble opinion) if any changes need to be made to an existing ticket. Hence the depths of my gratitude to Becky Detimore at Inspired Journeys for guiding me through the darkness and out into the light with grace, good humor and mad expertise! She not only weathers, but DOMINATES Indian call centers, inane rules and inconsistent regulations. It's downright awe-inspiring!

A São Paulo Notebook

2011-09-27T21:22:00.009-06:00

I love the concept:

Artist Fernanda Guedes draws strangers who catch her eye and then invents identities for them.

Going The Distance

2011-09-26T21:28:00.027-06:00

Here
Source: The Gladdest Thing

Here I am in the garden laughing
an old woman with heavy breasts
and a nicely mapped face

how did this happen
well that’s who I wanted to be

at last a woman
in the old style sitting
stout thighs apart under
a big skirt grandchild sliding
on off my lap a pleasant
summer perspiration

that’s my old man across the yard
he’s talking to the meter reader
he’s telling him the world’s sad story
how electricity is oil or uranium
and so forth I tell my grandson
run over to your grandpa ask him
to sit beside me for a minute I
am suddenly exhausted by my desire
to kiss his sweet explaining lips

by Grace Paley

Colored Pencils

2011-09-25T23:41:00.008-06:00

The vibrancy of David Poppie's art inspires me as I sift through paint chips and attempt to make my peace with the color yellow.

Russian Sex Appeal

2011-09-24T22:12:00.000-06:00

Ulyana's striking take on matryoshki.

A Dirge Without Music

2011-09-21T17:30:00.000-06:00

Elegy For A Plum

She cannot be so dead.

She cannot be so dead

when she flickers with such glorious motion

here on the broad plains

of my heart.

by The Noisy Plume

Thoughts On The Death Of Thomas Plotkin

Each of us is a blend of dust and divinity. We each have the capacity to be heroic, and we are, each and every one of us, mortal. In a time when we are reminded of that, it’s not the answers to questions that will heal; it is community and family.

by Tori Murden McClure

Bring In The Clowns...

2011-09-17T04:19:00.006-06:00

There should always room for the circus in life.

Feats of strength and madcap antics.

Heart Tremors

2011-09-15T05:29:00.030-06:00

I woke up at 3am unable to sleep so I curled up under a comforter on El Coucho and watched the rest of Jane Eyre, having started the movie while in a rose oil and epsom salt bath before going to bed.

The heroines of Brontë and Austen have been compelling creatures for me since I was a child. Why am I so moved by their stories? These women with their guarded, unrecognized, passionate and imaginative interior worlds are set free by a romantic love that persistently and patiently works to break down all obstacles, including those of their own making.

Seeing these tales told well nourishes me on a deep level-- the ultimate comfort food. Although Evan and Mike continue to be utterly mystified by my taste for them, I keep returning to my favorites to bulwark the easily shaken faith I have that love does in fact conquer all.

(The perfect version if you recast Jane and Mr. Bingley, but not equal to the Greer Garson and Lawrence Olivier telling I grew up with or the epically long loveliness that is the BBC miniseries. Just saying.)

Welcome To The World!

2011-09-13T22:08:00.008-06:00

Livia Grace Paar
arrived at 4:10 pm
weighing in at 8 lbs 8 ounces
to the great joy of many

To think that Skype allowed Evan to meet his new niece hours after she was born! Miraculous times we live in...

Devolution

2011-09-06T14:41:00.013-06:00

(click on pic for music)

Please note: this post was created under the influence of an ER-sanctioned Vistaril overdose that reduced me from human to animal to vegetable to mineral. Slow-blinking mineral.

Argh...

2011-09-03T14:47:00.009-06:00

Anaphylactic shock: also less than ideal.

A Family Tree

2011-09-01T11:54:00.000-06:00

Today is Eliza Belle Scott's second birthday. She's one of my favorite kids of all time and space.

If I had my druthers, I would give Eliza her family tree rendered in a print by Patricia Curtan of Chez Panisse fame to celebrate the day. Seems to me a dreamy gift for the walls of a child's room!

Blah...

2011-08-29T16:11:00.003-06:00

Food poisoning: less than ideal.

Tiny Toadstool

2011-08-25T11:17:00.018-06:00

This Osaka housewife captures perfectly how my inner child wants to dress on an everyday basis!

Thanks to Happiness Is... for the introduction.

Do you think it means something that Shan Shan is always looking left?!

Homespun Wedding Fun

2011-08-19T16:41:00.038-06:00

This couple got married in their Seattle home...

...and the photographs are enchanting!

Speaking of standout photos in the genre...

...this couple decided to go with a zombie attack to announce their engagement!

Then there's the ethereal Great Gatsby style of Kate Moss' wedding...

...both gorgeous and totally out of reach for most mortals.

Or the elegance in simplicity...

...captured in the shots of this Bay Area affair.

Finally, one of my best friends from grade school's younger brother just got hitched ...

...and the video celebrating that event is a feast for the senses.

Baltic Blessings

2011-08-17T16:27:00.004-06:00

One... the Irish bartender at Urban Deli who walked me through the marvels of their menu, pointed out with gusto his favorite items in the restaurant's attached grocery store, and left me with directions to a nearby view overlooking the whole of Stockholm. I took the elevator up to the 24th floor and took in the twilight beauty.

Two... reveling in the fjords, glaciers, ice fields, and peaks below with an elderly gentleman and a snowboarder's mom as we flew over the southern tip of Greenland.

Neo Gypsies

2011-08-16T06:35:00.006-06:00

Photos by Iain McKell.

Videos by Rick Mereki.

Lapland Blessings

2011-08-15T05:36:00.014-06:00

One... a healthy body that enjoyed hiking 9 km down from Låktatjåkko Mountain Lodge for the fifth and final time this season.

Two... seeing the full moon rise.

Three... my tiny room tucked up under the eaves.

Four... the free reign that Robin and Josephine enjoy when creating exquisite food in the hut's kitchen.

Five... reading a book at leisure in an old wooden armchair by the fireplace.

Six... delightful conversation with a poised eight year old from Milan and her eccentric Swedish grandfather in the hut's sauna.

Seven... skies brushed clear by wind.

Eight... the company of a lively and insightful group of Norwegian women in their fifties, our elbows on the table as we emptied bottle after bottle of wine and discussed everything from reclaiming aprons to cultural tells and bra-less basketball.

Nine... herding reindeer to the songs of Katy Perry.

Ten... picking cloudberries and drinking directly from streams.

There's No Place Like Home...

2011-08-13T14:54:00.013-06:00

I miss my guy WICKED bad. If only I had these to take me home to him instead of four days of planes, trains and automobiles!

Kids In General

2011-07-30T06:53:00.009-06:00

This gave me a laugh this morning. Oh, the tragicomedy that is childhood!

Both from Found Magazine.

This Kid...

2011-07-29T01:15:00.002-06:00

34 is the postal code of Spain.

34 degrees south runs through Cape Town, South Africa.

34 degrees north bisects Rabat, Morocco.

34 in the Rules of the Internet claims that anything that exists has been made into porn.

34 is the number of years I have under my belt as of today.

How About Zanzibar?

2011-07-27T14:54:00.000-06:00

Looks mighty fine to me.

Stones Re-Imagined

2011-07-26T01:21:00.013-06:00

When I saw Yoran Morvant's portfolio on The Jealous Curator, I fell into deep like...

His pieces remind me of Andy Goldsworthy's work, but on a smaller scale-- obvious and natural, yet unlike anything I've seen before.

I am so psyched about artists (just in general).

Reshaping the sacred material of our experience into something new, surprising, and resonant?

There's a heck of a lot of beauty and worth in that.

I ♥ My Neighbors

2011-07-25T13:32:00.010-06:00

I can't tell you how much it means to me to have Jake, Erin, Tina and Tom watching over our home while Evan and I are away-- mowing the lawn, watering the plants, warming the house with family and friends, shuttling the tide of mail inside, safe keeping the spare set of keys...

Best of all, they'll be there to enrich our lives with their fabulous company when we return to Amoretti Street in August!

We are truly blessed and so grateful. What a crazy world that their presence in the neighborhood doesn't cause local housing prices to go through the roof!

This piece from NPR on the importance of knowing and cherishing the people who live around you made me think of Lander as a whole...

Thanks to those who claim 82520 as their zip code for making our community one to be so very proud of-- we feel honored to share our lives with you!

The Fruitstand

2011-07-24T13:25:00.000-06:00

Simple Pleasures

2011-07-09T03:18:00.000-06:00

Little Things is a running list of joys that can be found in life's details.

Back To The Future

2011-07-08T01:30:00.002-06:00

Before and after shots by Irina Werning. Which of your childhood photos would you recreate?

Another time lapse project was undertaken by this family in Spain who have taken head shots each year since 1976...

Thanks 256

2011-07-07T06:21:00.000-06:00

Graham introduced me to Dropbox and then made my day by sending me Demetri Martin's new album of stand up. Nice one. I win.

Eating Whale

2011-07-06T05:40:00.006-06:00

Hour 154

I am running to catch my flight to Oslo.

Hour 159

As we land in Bodø, I spy glaciated granite cliffs out the window and my heart skips a beat. I bail on my flight to Narvik, collect my bags and head out into the drizzle to catch a ferry to the Lofoten (lynx foot) Islands. Leaving the airport, I run into a nice couple I met on my first day in Norway who taught me a trick for converting Norwegian Kroners into US Dollars: add half to the number and then move the decimal over one spot (100 NOK = 100 + (100/2) = 150/10 = 15 USD). Genius.

Hour 162

Initially, I pass my time waiting for the boat in a marine supply store where I fall in love with a pair of huge red plastic mittens. I then wander into the local mall and am disappointed to see that Jane Eyre isn't playing at the movie theater until later that night. Finally, I make my way back to the ferry terminal, don my ear plugs and eye mask, and fall asleep on a ledge by the window.

Hour 165

The land/sea scape sliding by outside the ferry window is ridiculous. It's as if the Winds were flooded to tree line by the ocean, leaving only their jagged spine intact above the water. It's easy to imagine Viking longboats sailing forth from this stronghold.

Hour 168.5

I haul my bags up the ferry's impossibly steep ramp and see Harald, smiling and waving on the dock. We head to Kabelvåg where I find out we'll be inaugural guests in the beautiful, old house bought just days before by his friends, Seth and Maren. We climb the steps, duck in the door and I am reminded of the maritime interiors in the movie, Persuasion. Cello music and Django Reinhart fill the house.

It is quickly established (amid moving boxes and backpacks crammed full with gear) that it is a very small world. Yesterday, Maren almost bought a kayak from Lena. Seth helped drywall Melis and Joey's shower in Talkeetna and went to college with Adam Ü. He's skied with Matt Lloyd and John Fitzgerald in Jackson and when asked if he'd run into Weber while guiding last month, he mulls it over: "... dark haired guy, quiet, with a blond girlfriend?" Yes indeed (minus the quiet part). Andreas, who just did the first ski descent of Denali's South Face, is in the kitchen preparing a dinner of salmon cakes and apple crisp with his girlfriend. I am clearly outclassed, but among friends.

Hour 189

I enjoy a delicious dinner (thin slices of ham, eggs with fresh chives on whole grain toast, honey walnuts and gorgonzola) under the eves of an old fishing depot with a wonderful couple that Harald knows from Bodø. Both doctors, they are renovating this three story building in Henningsvær. Behind us, the Priest (a classic 5.10b multipitch) leans against the tallest point in the island chain, making me wonder what Evan would make of this place.

I have gone through a landfill's worth of Kleenex in the past 48 hours.

Hour 204

I get off the bus to go to the bathroom on my way south to Reine and emerge from the gas station to find that it has left without me. As I wait for the next one, I decide to go to Å instead.

Hour 205.5

We drive by an old farmhouse with sheep grazing on it's peaked, turf roof. Seriously?

The silhouette of a cormorant with it's wings spread seems to be emblematic around here and it gets me thinking that the image would make a killer family crest if you were into that kind of thing.

Hour 206

We pass through Reine and it blows my mind. It's like a submerged cathedral of rock, with a sunlit fishing village perched on islands at the entrance.

Hour 206.5

I am unimpressed by Å and return to Reine. I carry a hello from Anders to Sandro, who has already gone home for the day from his kayak shed. Seth gave me the number of a friend who runs a guide service/guesthouse in Reine. While Ule Christian is up north climbing for the weekend, his mother kindly opens up the house for me. It's smack dab in the middle of the bay with spectacular views of the mountains.

She shows me a bicycle I can use and I head off --feet barely reaching the pedals-- across two bridges to eat dinner in Hamnøy at a cozy pub. I order the minke whale and it's divine (local fishermen brought it in two weeks ago). Because my nose is completely socked in, I have to come up for air between mouthfuls. The family at a nearby table glare meaningfully at me every time I blow my nose. I turn to see if they are staring at something behind me, but no-- I have window curtains and an inoffensive burgundy wall to my back. Biking home slightly buzzed, I stop and chat with some Finnish men hanging their fishing lines off one of the bridges in hopes of catching something before the day is out. Oystercatchers skim over the water in pairs.

Hour 254

I wake up from a nap on a granite slab below a waterfall in an alpine meadow laced with wildflowers and forty minutes later have my toes dug into hot sand as I watch the surf roll in. Best day yet, minus getting caught in the bus vortex that is Leknes.

These islands remind me of my two favorite children's books, The Sailor Dog and Miss Rumphius-- funny to think how much they've influenced my taste over the years!

I walk in the door at 10:30pm to a post-beach barbecue wine soiree at Seth and Maren's. Five cups later I am happily curled up in bed.

Hour 270

Up at 5:30am to catch the ferry over to the mainland. Coming down the gangplank in Skutvik, I am immediately ushered onto a local bus despite some confusion on my part and told I cannot pay because the computer screen is broken. The driver and I then proceed to his home where he washes all the windows on the bus and signs for a bed frame that gets delivered. My confusion grows. I am dropped off to transfer buses having essentially no idea where I am, so I lie down and fall asleep in the sun for two hours. The next bus driver is running ten minutes late and acting for all the world like the white rabbit in Alice In Wonderland. As I unload my bags at the Tysfjord Touristcenter (the end game in this whole charade), I am left in a swirl of dust and exhaust as the bus pulls away, not having paid for the ride. So --all told-- I traveled about 250 km on land and by sea for around thirty dollars in one of the most expensive countries on earth. Entirely by accident.

No one from NOLS is around and the woman behind the desk at the lodge is surly and pleads ignorance on all fronts... I wonder if I've made some sort of colossal mistake such as getting my contract dates wrong. As I wait for something to happen which will confirm or dismiss my misgivings, I throw a load of laundry in the wash and bring a baguette with brie and salami down to the beach for a late breakfast in the grass.

I bought a detergent at the local convenience store because I recognized the word "colors" on the jug. Turns out I should have asked for some help translating the Norwegian label. As I hang my clothes --now a uniform and beguiling shade of purple-- on the line to dry, a Sami woman in ghoulish makeup (scarlet lipstick encircling her mouth, barely hanging onto her lips) weaves under my socks and peers up at me with a bleary smile. She winks and says, "See you later, Alligator!" before leaning into an invisible wind and tacking towards a utility closet. Turns out she is the center's cleaning lady, which explains a lot about the state of the facilities. She reminds me of characters on the streets of San Francisco.

Howie and Nick roll in from a day of shopping in Narvik in time to catch me reading a children's book about Vikings in bed. We move boxes of food into a basement room that reeks of fish, I get a tour of the place and am handed two folders of paperwork for my briefing tomorrow. The NOLS routine feels the same from Norway to Coyote Bay.

I'm here. [sharp intake of breath and a sing-song, "...mmmmm" which is all to say, yes]

It's The Fourth!

2011-07-04T05:23:00.006-06:00

A shout out to all my people blowing shit up today in small town America.

I Almost Buy A Spatula

2011-06-30T05:20:00.030-06:00

Hour 78

I am running to catch my flight to Stockholm.

Hour 89.5

Getting off the plane, I develop a game plan. Once I've substituted familiar words for difficult foreign names, it sounds something like this in my head: "Catch the Arlanda Express into the city. Buy a 3-day travelcard from the Presbyterian, then catch the T-bana to Maria Turandot. Walk three blocks on Robitussin, turning left at Skull Garden. If I hit Kierkegaard's Grandaughter, I've gone too far." Since I struggle to pronounce basically anything, asking for directions can be a challenge. Listening to people talk here feels like getting double-bounced on a trampoline, the accent falling on unexpected syllables.

I arrive at my destination-- a subterranean hotel without internet access run by a wonderful man whom I suspect is gay. Other lodging options I consider and rule out are a repurposed prison (too far from the metro for an easy stroll with a mammoth bag and it's smaller cousin, even if they roll) and a ship moored in the harbor (the bunks are rumored to smell strongly of varnish).

Hour 92

My initial foray out of the cave dwelling I now call home is to procure the basics: reading material and food (in that order). I find success with the first objective at a hip little bookstore, Papercut, that reminds me of one of my favorite stores on Clement Street in San Francisco, Park Life. The attractive asian guy behind the counter is playing Mindkilla (the Lee "Scratch" Perry remix) by Gang Gang Dance on a program called Spotify. I tuck two new books into my bag. Life is good. I end up dining on salmon over candlelight with sunlight streaming in the window at Creperie Frya Knop. Life is even better.

Hour 99.5

I wake up at 12:30 am thinking it's 8 am. Still off kilter.

Hour 110.5

I miss the morning ferry out to the skärgård because I am lost near Hornstull. Consequently, I have some time to kill.

Looking around at my options from the ferry landing, I am attracted to the greenery over a nearby bridge and start walking that way. As I pass by the National Museum, I notice a huge banner hanging over the entrance that's advertising an exhibit called "Lust and Vice". At first, I can't figure out what I am looking at... then I realize it's a 17th Century nun with her skirts hiked up over her bare ass (which has been pixelated in an effort to keep the image appropriate for all ages). Since she's got a fair amount of junk in her trunk, the censored portion of the painting takes up about a quarter of the banner. I go inside hoping to find it reproduced on a brochure or postcard I can send to Evan, but no dice.

Seagulls cry out in protest overhead as I make my way along the seawall. Fishing boats shaped like pill bugs creak quayside in time to the sound of my backpack shifting side to side on my shoulders as I walk. Shrieks from an impressive-looking amusement park on the next island over carry across the water.

The sun is merciless despite the breeze off the ocean and I regret the fact that all my shoes are at least a size and a half too big (for various reasons too trite to mention). Blisters start popping up with abandon. Because of the heat, the European penchant for near public nudity is in full effect-- thongs and bikinis are de rigueur for the geriatric set and the massively overweight (which does wonders for my self esteem).

Exploring a second island of public gardens in the middle of the city, I find Rosendals Tradgards, an organic farm selling fresh greens and sparkling limeade with springs of mint. I picnic under a grove of fruit trees and shoo away the geese that creep ever closer to my feast.

Back on the subway in search of something to bring on the ferry for dinner. A couple of five year olds in lime-green safety vests count to three beside me before shouting out in tandem, "Poop!" and "Penis!" in a game of their own making.

Exiting the underground, I nearly fall on my face in excitement when I catch sight of a MUJI store tucked into a larger home goods emporium in one of the metro tunnels. I greedily pick up some exquisitely lightweight pens and a spectacular black plastic spatula and get in line to check out. As I wait my turn it occurs to me that I don't really NEED the spatula (even though it is GORGEOUS) so I forgo the indulgence and save myself the indignity of returning home with a piece of Japanese kitchenware from Scandinavia as one of my few souvenirs.

I get a to-go order of steamed dumplings and some soup on St. Eriksgatan, both from places recommended in Design*Sponge's Stockholm guide. To my embarrassment, I find myself telling an elaborate lie involving unrelated half truths when the super friendly staff at one cafe ask me how I found out about them... Inga, art school in Brooklyn, husband in Montana, friend of a friend. They are thrilled when they confer and agree they recognize a regular customer from my description. I stuff dinner into my bag and skulk guiltily away as they call after me to send their regards to Inga. I am the lowest of the low.

I turn my ankle more times than I can count walking in cowboy boots on the cobbled streets of Gamla Stan, where the shade of narrow lanes offers some respite from the sun. Wares hanging for sale in a doorway in the tourist section remind me that hippie clothes smell like hippy clothes the world over. I follow a woman in a floral dress walking four West Highland White Terriers down a deserted alley and stumble upon the Old Town Lodge and am reminded of how much I love finding an unexpected treasure when traveling.

Hour 116

The lean of a sailboat crossing the ferry's wake makes me catch my breath. Silhouetted by the setting sun, people line every available sea margin-- the railings of bridges and balconies, glacier-polished granite banks that gleam like whale backs. We pass a cove where twenty small white sails practice maneuvers in a tight bunch below a crane painted like a giraffe. Further on, at the entrance to a wharf flanked by new high-rise apartments there's a statue of a nude male getting attacked by nunchucks or reaching for the stars-- I can't tell which. Life boats that look modeled on submarines cling to the sides of towering cruise ships like so many yellow barnacles. Passing through the islands off Stockholm, these behemoths with their smokestack dorsal fins look like orcas moving through a school of herring.

In my hurry to grab something to eat for the ride, I forgot the need to hydrate as well. I down an entire basket of strawberries in an effort to quench my thirst. When that fails, I head downstairs and buy a bottle of water. My first gulp gets spat overboard. I take a second look at the label and from what I can make out, it's a sparkling rhubarb-flavored drink. Well, dang.

A couple flirt a few feet away from me in broken English. The man tells a dirty joke --something about fishing and a pole going up and down-- and the woman looks away in embarrassment. In an effort to make amends, he adds, "Joke I make for you. I could make signature like autograph." She appears mollified. I wonder idly where Tiger Wood's ex-wife, Elin, bought her house out here. I didn't realize until now that she's pretty average when you look at Swedish norms-- biracial marriage, kids, gorgeous blond, fit, second home out in the country (the in-flight magazine said around 60% of Swedes own a rural getaway!).

Hour 119

Gällnö (an island whose name reminds me of chicken broth for reasons I can't explain) turns out to be the idyllic sum of familiar parts:

Burnt By The Sun's dacha (sans the impending soviet doom)
Room With A View's dappled meadows (sans the epic scale of romance in Italy)
Tahoe's aspen, granite and crowds of vacationing families (sans the mountains)
West Marin's rope swings and pastoral splendor (sans the dairy farms)
British Columbia's chain of islands (sans the kookiness born of isolation).

It's silent except for insects buzzing in the slanting light. The air is heavy with the scent of roses, pine woods and sea spray as I walk down a dirt path flanked by waving fields of green grass to the island's hostel.

Hour 123.5

A little before midnight, I wake up and systematically kill two mosquitoes. I hear a boat's motor chugging away in the distance and think, "If Evan were here right now I would whisper, 'Smugglers!' in his sleeping ear." Other strange impulses I've had recently? Greeting people in Hindi and Swahili. Successfully resisted so far.

Hour 133

I wake up with a sore throat. Doh.

Hour 135

Lunch at the island's only cafe --housed in a beautiful old farmhouse-- astounds my tastebuds. Fresh. Local. Organic.

Fear 恐怖 Miedo Peur ความหวาดกลัว Cтрах

2011-06-29T02:39:00.016-06:00

I don't REALLY fear this...

or this...

It's more the thought of this...

"It's so nice to wake up in the morning all alone and not have to tell somebody you love them when you don't love them any more."

- Love Poem by Richard Brautigan

or this...

"Many years ago, he had taken the passion he felt for Susan and folded it in half, so he no longer had a drowning, helpless feeling when he glimpsed her beside him in bed: her ropy arms and soft, generous ass. Then he’d folded it in half again, so when he felt desire for Susan, it no longer brought with it an edgy terror of never being satisfied. Then in half again, so that feeling desire entailed no immediate need to act. Then in half again, so he hardly felt it. His desire was so small in the end that Ted could slip it inside his desk or a pocket and forget about it, and this gave him a feeling of safety and accomplishment, of having dismantled a perilous apparatus that might have crushed them both."

- A Visit From The Goon Squad by Jennifer Egan

...that keeps me up at night.

I don't want to live a lie because of a lack of courage or let fear eat away at my capacity to love or be loved. Damn Frankie D. for being right on the money when he said, "There is nothing to fear but fear itself." Please bear witness: I'm aiming for present, vulnerable, self-aware, and honest. If I can truly make my peace with fear, it will probably grow bored and decamp, right?

I've heard tell that humans ultimately amount to a combo platter of love and fear (served up in a water bag with a few bones tossed in for good measure). Fear in that scenario being the question, "Can you help me?" and love being the answer, "Yes." Healing being the process of reclaiming via love territory lost to fear in one's life.

So, here's a poultice for those ragged wounds inflicted by fear...

"You're gorgeous, you old hag, and if I could give you just one gift ever for the rest of your life it would be this. Confidence. It would be the gift of confidence. Either that or a scented candle."

- One Day by David Nicholls

(click on pic for god-love music)

Images from the brilliant site, Push The Movement.

In Transit...

2011-06-27T03:38:00.045-06:00

Hour 1

The alarm goes off at 4:30am. Graham and I stumble about our respective homes, arming ourselves with coffee (Graham), a shower (me), and breakfast burritoes (intended for both of us, but ultimately lukewarm and forgotten in my bag). Graham kindly drives me to the airport where I hand him the keys to the kingdom (truck and house) for safe-keeping.

Hour 1.5

Great Lakes fails to hail United on the phone to vet my ticket so the puddle jumper to Denver leaves without me. I wait seven and a half hours in the Riverton airport for the next flight out.

Hour 5

Vacuum cleaners roar in the background. I visit the Airport Cafe and get two sausage links and a piece of french toast with cottage cheese (Evan just winced) and syrup for $5.20 with a Great Lakes voucher. I watch Beth's trio of red-headed sprites (three and four years old) give their mom a Skittles-infused send-off.

Hour 12

The threat of missing my connection is enough to dissuade me from getting my traditional boot polish in the Denver Airport although I am sorely tempted.

Hour 17

I remember feeling intrepid and independent getting shuttled around the world on planes. This time around the feeling is more one of loneliness and isolation. It's something about the combo of language barriers, disorientation and watching people in tribes of two or more traveling together that turns me into an observer. Details that I wouldn't otherwise notice grab my attention...

A mother and son sitting next to me diligently practice saying "La Torta Antipatica" as they pour over their Italian flash cards. The pair are utterly intent and sincere as they carefully repeat "The Disagreeable Cake" out loud to each other.

Sparrows duck in and out of the vents and rafters overhead, delighting the human hordes below. I never noticed the birds that populate airports until Evan pointed them out to me. Now I look for them and see them everywhere.

The smokers, relegated to plastic cubes in terminals, are all bunched together and on display below weak trails of smoke.

...The heatbreak of traveling alone is that there's no one's shoulder to rest your chin on as you quietly point out the couple over there.

I miss Evan. When he took off for India last year, I was able to successfully let go of my attachment to what our relationship would look like when he got back. I was able to stay open to unexpected outcomes and trust that all would ultimately turn out for the best. The gift of that capacity was hugely freeing.

This time has been much harder. Sitting in Dulles, it hits me how much of my life I've spent alone and how precious this relationship is to me. Fear whispers sweet nothings in my ear that leave me hungering for a sense of control in the face of change rather than relaxing into faith.

Hour 22

I hit the in-flight magazine jackpot! Articles about Muay Thai, The Cult of Cross-Fit, Louis CK, and traveling around Southwestern Ireland keep me occupied and away from the movie selection onboard the plane to Germany.

Hour 26

I have made it a habit to seek out prayer rooms in international airports during long layovers. I prefer mosques with their plush prayer mats. Sacrilegious some would say, but I would argue that sleep is a wonderful way to commune with God. The chapel in Frankfurt is full of windows and light, I can't find the mosque down the warren of narrow hallways and the synagogue is a stuffy, windowless conference room. I opt for an eye mask, ear plugs, and a bench by Gate A22. It occurs to me --not for the first time-- that a mint could be made by adding gyms and sleeping rooms to airports worldwide.

Hour 33

The Norwegian bus driver announces in broken English, "My Ladies and Gentlemen. You are lucky today. For you we have planes, trains, and buses because there is construction on the line to Oslo for the next six weeks. I will be happy to see you again perhaps? Have no worries about getting lost-- we are together. I will not leave you. Have a happy evening and please give me one meter of space when I unload your bags." Color me charmed.

Hour 35

A saxophonist and his girlfriend let me use their phone. Harald picks me up and takes me straight to a BBQ at his friend's rooftop apartment, overlooking the city. Harald was a student of mine on a WFR in Durango years ago, an inspiring innovator with exquisite taste who just got back from guiding a client to the North Pole. I am presented with my own room, internet access, a set of keys and a cellphone. Harald mentions that I should stay with friends of his in the Lofoten Islands and in Stockholm. I am reminded that it rarely pays to make plans ahead of time when traveling and that I am far more comfortable being the generous one than the grateful one in scenarios like these.

Hour 37

It's still light out when I go to bed at midnight.

Hour 38

I agonize over a relatively simple design decision and send an email home changing my mind about a detail on the back stairwell of the new addition.

Hour 48

I wake up sunken into a partially deflated air mattress, pee dark yellow, pound water and take a run by the river skirting Harald's apartment. I dodge more strollers than I've seen in ages and legions of Aryan-looking exercise enthusiasts. The light rain, salt air, maple trees, slugs and harebell flowers all remind me of the Pacific Northwest.

Hour 54

After a delicious lunch which includes raiding the fridge for brown cheese, spreadable bacon in a tube, and a bell pepper, I catch a bus and ferry to the polished museum paths of Bygdøy. To see the Kon-Tiki, the Fram and a Viking Longship in the same afternoon is to marvel at the scope of Norway's maritime heritage.

Although I followed Harald's directions every step of the way, there is still the thrill of having successfully navigated public transportation as I climb the five flights of stairs back up to his door. I even managed to look bored enough at a bus stop to be approached for directions by a Norwegian. That said, I have quite a distance to travel before I'll be able to say I've truly arrived here. At this point reading any Norwegian sign is an elaborate guessing game in which I look for the English words hidden within constellations of unfamiliar consonants. Sometimes a sense of place comes slowly, if at all.

North To The Arctic Circle

2011-06-24T13:41:00.008-06:00

I'm outta here in the morning! My flight leaves tomorrow at an ungodly hour, then it's a slow journey to the northern reaches of Scandihoovia where I'll be traipsing about doing field work until August 18th. I'm super grateful to have this opportunity-- a chance to explore a part of the world I know next to nothing about!

The First Day of Summer

2011-06-21T11:03:00.015-06:00

It's official: Today is the day! Most sunlight all year, according to Edward.

This series of photographs was taken by Danny Lyons in the summer of 1974 in Brooklyn.

Here's the link to the whole kit-and-caboodle.

Where were you in the summer of '74?

My parents had just gotten married and I wouldn't be along for a few more years.

I like the feel of the era captured in these photos-- makes me proud to have come into this world during those times.

The Call of The Karakorum

2011-06-20T00:17:00.001-06:00

The three white guys above are in Pakistan right now to climb the gorgeous west face of the monolith below:

The climbing they're doing? I'm impressed. The cultural and geographical exploration they're doing? I'm REALLY jealous.

Lucky for me, these three musketeers (soon to be joined by a fourth) are wonderful observers and diligent scribes so I can live vicariously through their blog until I get an opportunity to experience that part of the world for myself. Inshallah I will one day.

Incidentally, look for the comments by their moms on the blog-- they nearly steal the show in my opinion. Evan considered joining this expedition at one point and reading their moms' send-offs (so full of well-wishing and proud love) made me think of Jacque. His mom, like theirs, has many years of practice watching her son go off and risk his life to do what feeds his soul. Ultimately as a parent there must be a point when you decide that you want your child to thrive rather than simply survive. Inshallah these sons will do both. They certainly have thus far.

Happy Father's Day!

2011-06-19T06:05:00.007-06:00

These beautiful photos are from The Sartorialist's moving post about being a stay-at-home parent.

Go, dads!

Violence On My Mind

2011-06-18T04:13:00.008-06:00

Last Saturday, the fifth person I'm aware of this year was on the receiving end of violence associated with a local bar called The Forge. The majority of these incidents have resulted in hospital visits yet, to my knowledge, charges haven't been pressed in any of the cases.

The corner building that The Forge now occupies has gone through many incarnations over the years and has apparently had a reputation as a locus of conflict since the Seventies. Historically, the tensions that combust there have been between whites and natives from the Rez, between ranchers and liberals, between gays and straights, between out-of-towners and locals. And the violence has also been completely random at times.

It's hard to stomach that people in this place I am proud to call home have been hurt enough themselves to threaten and beat the crap out of strangers in public. Needless to say, this pattern of violence has unsettled the community and left many of us searching for an appropriate way to respond-- one that won't escalate the situation, but communicates that we want to prevent violent and bigoted behavior.

For me this brings up, among other things, the power of stereotypes and the social distortion they can cause. I've been reading Whistling Vivaldi, a book that gets it's title from the story of a fellow in NYC who observed people consistently shrinking from him in fear as he walked home from school. In order to address the reaction he inspired in strangers as a black man, he began to whistle classical music as he walked. He found that this simple strategy had a dramatic effect on passersby-- they began to smile and relax as he approached. He found a way to diffuse the situation by communicating, "I am not who you think I am and I am not to be feared" without saying a word. Likewise, in a local example, Casey found a way to gracefully communicate the impact of an assault he witnessed to the perpetrator the day after the event in a way that re-humanized everybody involved. William Blake said that damn braces and bless relaxes... there's something to that.

So how do we each bless ourselves and others in order to promote healing? The answers aren't always forthcoming and it's been hard to avoid a sense of urgency when it comes to addressing these recent events in Lander. Everybody is acutely aware of Matthew Shepard's death in Laramie, another Wyoming town of good people taken aback by violence yet shot through with pain and prejudice. Given the pressures and challenges involved, it's been especially heartening of late to see people here succeed in finding ways, no matter how small, to reinforce the values we aspire to live by with respect and personal integrity.

"Poco a poco, paso a paso...", as they say. We're all trying our best and I think that counts for a lot.

The Jump Seat

2011-06-17T07:50:00.003-06:00

Synopsis:

The last few weeks I've felt like Evan and I occupied jump seats in the belly of some military plane, awaiting deployment. It's been tedious, uncomfortable, exciting, daunting and nerve-wracking all at the same time.

Evan jumped last Monday, flying to Alaska to lead a summer's worth of packrafting courses. My turn isn't for another week, when I head to Scandinavia for field work that lasts until mid-August. Two months apart-- that's an awfully long time in the air and then there's the whole finding our way back to each other once we land. We both have a lot of jumps under our belts, but that doesn't mean any of this is easy. This is only our second tandem dive towards earth.

The plane's engines drone-- the white noise of mundane logistics like a recycling run to the dump, buying compactor bags and making sure there's someone to mow the lawn while we're gone. Right around the corner though is the moment when I'll step out into space, feel the adrenaline rush and surrender to the adventure ahead. I am trying to catch cat naps, do some light reading and fuel up on comfort foods while I can. Sometimes I wonder if I'm too old for this and other times I hope I never am.

Guns On The Fridge

2011-06-16T19:19:00.011-06:00

We have a very strict policy...

... only photos of our friends with guns and save-the-date cards on our refrigerator.

Janeen took these beauties of Annie and Clair during a recent NOLS Staffing teambuilding session. Gotta love Wyoming.

Best Wedding EVER!

2011-06-15T18:40:00.007-06:00

Gosh. I can't even TELL you how happy this makes me. First they got hitched in Vegas and now they're moving to Barcelona. I love love LOVE being a part of their lives and look forward to being around as these two navigate the happily ever after. Congrats, Abby and Hovey! You're a class act.

Orders of Magnitude

2011-06-13T10:21:00.011-06:00

Sometimes the lightest touch sends shock waves through the heart. This wedding photographer went "behind the scenes" to capture the love expressed in the weight of a hand and found tales worth telling...

I think these would come in at a 5.6 on the Richter scale-- felt, but the impacts are comfortable rather than destructive. Like all the best earthquakes.

Sam's News

2011-06-12T14:20:00.027-06:00

Here I am last Sunday, atop the St. John's Bridge, biking with my friend, Clemmy, out to the farmland and beaches of Sauvie Island, just north of PDX. Apparently, this bridge was a proof of concept for the suspension used in the Golden Gate Bridge-- I like it better for its whimsical lamps and needle tops though. By the end of the day, my thighs were pure fire and jello. It felt great.

In other news, I'm...

Living in a big, cooperative pink house and working at OHSU through June.
Blasting off to Europe sometime soon after that.
Still gluten-free. Still sugar and dairy moderate. Still full of healthful foods. Still aching to crunch into an glutinous cone of dark chocolate ice cream.
Devouring a book of funny moments with the zen teacher, Shunryu Suzuki, as told by his students.
Tending your room in my heart.

Thinking of you! I'm hoping to be in touch soon :)

Love love love, Sam

Could my littlest brother BE more tender and sweet?! I think not. Can you believe he was a porker of a baby?! Mind-boggling, I know. Can you tell he tans like an Italian?! Oh, the jealousy.

Other facts you may not be aware of:

1) Sam's favorite color was pink for years (LOVE that). 2) Sam is way smarter than me (although --let's be fair-- wisdom still manages to outfox him sometimes). 3) Sam's middle initials are H. N. because my grandmother insisted my parents follow Jewish tradition and name him after her husband who had just died, but nobody could stomach "Harold Neil" so the compromise ended up being the initials (families can be downright silly). 4) Sam is still attempting to collect damages on an alleged incident where I hung him out of a second story window (I maintain my innocence based on the fact that I did not intend to drop him and was in complete control of his feet at the time). 5) Sam has had to suffer through having his older sister (that'd be me) as a teacher in preschool AND high school (health class, no less!). 6) Sam's in his twenties and right on track-- struggling and winning in equal measure, finding his own strength amidst the storm. "Bravely done," as the beer cap says.

From one human being to another:
I love you and I'm proud.

High Roller

2011-06-10T09:35:00.001-06:00

...static... ..static........... ........static..

The Fugees / Stand By Me

Elbow / With Love

The Killers / Human

Hilltop Hoods / The Hard Road

...static... ..static........... ........static..
   

Travel + Food + Photography

2011-06-09T14:48:00.010-06:00

I would love, love, love to take a workshop from Penny De Los Santos.

I'm in the mood to learn skills, be a student, expand my horizons.

It's springtime after all! Time for new growth.

S.F. At Play

2011-06-01T10:03:00.019-06:00

(click on pic for music)

My immediate reaction upon seeing this photo on Cup of Jo this morning?

I smiled and thought, "That's gotta be San Francisco."

Turns out homegirl can still pick her hometown out of a crowd-- Yesssssss!

(click on pic for music)

I must have missed this commercial (the source of the stills) when it originally aired:

Please, Sit At My Table

2011-05-29T19:40:00.027-06:00

I like to imagine who I'd invite to a dinner party if I could gather anybody I wanted from history to attend. It would need to be an intimate soiree so I couldn't have more than, say, twelve folks.

It's kind of like that game, what would you grab from your burning house? ...only different.

I'm looking for good company. Folks with a sense of humor and a fascinating perspective-- the type of people you wish you were somehow related to in your life.

Who would you invite?

Albert Einstein comes to mind for me. I just love him. I mean listen to the guy...

How do I work? I grope.

All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree.

Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius -- and a lot of courage -- to move in the opposite direction.

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science.

He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.

Not everything that counts can be counted, and not everything that can be counted counts.

Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.

Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.

Any man who can drive safely while kissing a pretty girl is simply not giving the kiss the attention it deserves.

The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious - the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science.

Creativity is intelligence having fun.

Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.

If you can't explain it to a six year old, you don't understand it yourself.

Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving.

I envision the night going something like this...

"Thanks for bringing the wine, Albert-- it's delicious!"

"Wait, what did you say about your first kiss?!"

"That's ridiculous, but I see what you're saying. Do you mind passing me the asparagus?"

I Am But A Delicate Flower

2011-05-26T14:01:00.020-06:00

(click on pic for Tibetan singing bowl)

Meet my metaphor du jour:

When I lose my shit (that's the delicate flower part) it's like capsizing in a river kayak.

I am trying to learn how to roll.

The way I see it, there are a handful of possible outcomes as I practice:

a) I roll up on my own. Go me.

b) I wet exit, loose my paddle and boat, swim and eventually get flushed into an eddy.

c) I try my roll, don't get it, tap on my hull three times and get an assist from another boat's bow.

d) I try my roll, wet exit, hang onto my paddle and boat and self-rescue.

e) I try my roll, wet exit, hang on to my paddle and boat and get towed to shore.

f) I wet exit, get swept into an undercut rock and die. Worst case scenario.

g) I try my roll, wet exit, someone grabs my boat and paddle, and another boat tows me to shore.

h) I try my roll, swim and someone throws me a rope from shore. I catch it and pendulum to shore.

I could go on...

What's apparent to me is that -any way you slice it- PFDs and good company are clutch when navigating the steep part of a learning curve!

And if you're a true boater wondering whether we're talking about a combat or flat water roll here...

I don't know. My metaphor's a bit muddled on that point.

This is no pool practice though and I'm definitely not trying for an off-side or hand roll.

Not yet, at least.

Dressed For Success

2011-05-22T00:02:00.004-06:00

Sometimes a girl needs a little extra something to motivate her to run. Although I am strictly a jogger (in terms of mph) according to gym treadmills, I am one such girl.

So...

I invested in some new clothes. Blammo.

Item #1

Item #2

Then I got some killer tips from Kelly via this article in Runner's World.

Now I jog like the wind.

Spring Is For Swearing

2011-05-21T00:17:00.006-06:00

The tiger reclines in the simmering jungle.
The sparrow has silenced her cheep.
Fuck your stuffed bear. I'm not getting you shit.
Close your eyes. Cut the crap. Sleep.

What a perfect gift for new parents!

The flowers doze low in the meadows
And high on the mountains so steep.
My life is a failure. I'm a shitty-ass parent.
Stop fucking with me, please, and sleep.

It's created quite a bit of buzz. Samuel L. Jackson signed on for the audiobook and NPR weighed in with this piece.

The giant pangolins of Madagascar are snoozing
As I lie here awake and weep.
Sure, fine, whatever. I'll bring you some milk.
Who the fuck cares? You're not gonna sleep.

I was re-inspired by this book after Evan's sister, Heather, fell in love with the concept and I saw it featured on the font of all goodness-- Liza Howard's doozie of a blog.

The eagles who soar through the sky are at rest
And the creatures who crawl, run, and creep.
I know you're not thirsty. That's bullshit. Stop lying.
Lie the fuck down, my darling, and sleep.

Sweet f-ing dreams.
 

Bridesmaids, Fuck Yeah!

2011-05-20T06:07:00.013-06:00

Dear Universe,

Driving through the rain last night to see Bridesmaids at the Gem with Annie seriously hit the spot. That shit was brilliant. I laughed. I cried. It was WAY better than Cats. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Anna

Winter Storm Warning

2011-05-19T13:10:00.009-06:00

Nature knows best. But, for the record, this is ridiculous.

Rainy Day

2011-05-18T16:11:00.008-06:00

It's been raining lightly all day, nourishing the new grass seed I put in the ground last weekend. Listening to it drum on the roof and feeling it's sting on my face as I biked home, I am reminded of paddling on Tomales Bay as a warm rain pinged on the surface of the water above thousands of moon jellies. A feast for the senses, it was an experience awash in magic.

I Tip My Hat

2011-05-17T15:41:00.012-06:00

(click on pic for music)

Mr. Ebert, you've done it again!

As frontman for Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros you won my heart, but now you've sealed the deal with your new solo album, Alexander.

(click on pic for music)

That said, I CAN'T GET ENOUGH OF THIS!!!

Or this (mildly embarrassing but true)...

Store Fronts

2011-05-16T10:47:00.007-06:00

James and Karla Murray

have spent their professional careers

fascinated by cityscapes,

particularly

the changing face of

New York City.

Spring Planting

2011-05-15T10:51:00.007-06:00

Meet the newest addition to our backyard!

This tree was a birthday/holiday present from my parentals and bros last year. Best gift EVER. The baby aspen (native to these parts) sits outside the kitchen window-- a beautiful, daily reminder of my family's love and support as I make a home for myself here (far away from the west coast).

Watering it this morning, I gave thanks and told the sapling I had high hopes that it would live long and prosper. It seemed amenable to the plan.

Hey, Hermano...

2011-05-14T11:20:00.050-06:00

If you don't get the reference, click here for your viewing pleasure. Buster slays me, God love him.

Well, then.

I have two brothers. The one on the right is named Michael. He's three years younger than me.

Although we lead our lives in very different places, I am always (seriously, ALWAYS) running into people who know and love the guy... so I get a lot of opportunities to say, "Yeah, I'm Mike's sister."

And EVERY TIME I feel like a rock star by association. Because Mike generally kicks ass and takes names and I'm lucky enough to share genetic material with him.

Case in point:

He just posted the story of his relationship with money on the Resource Generation blog. I salute the bravery it took to talk candidly about the tough subject of personal wealth. Side note: You'll notice I'm wearing a splatter-painted swimsuit in the accompanying photo. Quite the fashionista.

Did I mention he's the co-director of that cool organization (by cool I mean that it's been featured on the pages of People Magazine --the only tangible source of information about the outside world in my life-- and empowers financially rich, young people to become social change philanthropists)?

Well, he is.

He's also fierce.

Look at that game face! Mike's the anomalous straight guy on a gay rugby team called the Seattle Quake-- a fact that I love. He is Mr. April in their 2011 promotional calendar (I want to give a signed copy to NOLS' Brotherhood of the Wrench to hang in their office). Mike's got tenacity and courage both on and off the pitch.

Yet such a lover.

Mike has always attracted people to him like moths to a flame (except for the self-immolation part) because of his generous, open heart. He's all compassion (until he's not).

And a shitton of fun.

This is one of my favorite pictures-- it was taken at Mahea and Alea's wedding. That's him and Kawika, Mahea's brother, cutting the cake. He was SO stoked. Mike has always been able to make me laugh harder than just about anyone else on earth-- that's probably the greatest gift he's given me over the years.

Bottom line? He makes me proud. All the time.

Mother's Day

2011-05-08T06:27:00.008-06:00

(click on pic for video)

Tina Fey's Prayer for her Daughter

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither the Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels. What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back. “My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

Obsessed With Bones

2011-05-07T14:20:00.011-06:00

Not these guys...

...THESE guys.

I stayed up until three am last night watching Bones. It's a show about an FBI agent and his socially-awkward partner, a forensic anthropologist who solves murders while wearing necklaces (it boggles the mind how many necklaces this woman wears).

Evan's friend, Nick, stayed with us for awhile this winter, leaving his Netflix account and an unfinished episode behind when he flew home. We've been hooked ever since-- just started Season Three!

That means we've watched about two full days of television to get to this point. Sobering thought.

Paper Moon

2011-05-06T20:46:00.019-06:00

These photos are making the rounds in cyberspace.

I helped myself to a serving.

Whimsy with a side of nostalgia?

Yes, please.

Click on the pictures for music.

It helps with the seasoning.

¡Cinco de Mayo!

2011-05-05T10:19:00.016-06:00

I'm totally over the moon about papel picado.

So festive.

So colorful.

And nothing says fun like skeletons at play!