Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
I think I missed the point, but who cares
It was awesome.
Every year in Portland thousands of Vaux Swift's arrive for about 3 weeks and call the chimney at a local school home. We are not talking 100 birds, but thousands of little swifts on their migratory trek.
And being Portland, this has become an annual community event. Last night was the first time that I was able to get to it and it was so cool. Jen, Shannon and I arrived at around 7, parked and walked to the school. Most folks were already happily camped out on the side of a super steep hill with their blankets, picnics, babies and dogs . Talking, chilling, just waiting.
Then the birds began to come. They would swirl, dive, glide and eventually all join a large cloud of birds in a ballet of motion circling the chimney. And then in one mass movement they focused the cloud homeward and began a mass exodus from the sky into the warmth of the chimney. Yea, it was cool.
But that was not at all the best part.
On the side of the steep, steep hill, kids in the know brought pieces of cardboard and were sliding down on their corrugated sleds. There were probably 50 kids of all ages doing this in a mosh. It was not "video games" as Strong Bad would say. It was so Old Skool. It was not marketed with special action figures or sponsored by Disney. Just kids + card board + hill = good time. And I kept getting distracted from the mystery of nature by the wonder of childhood. I can still hear the giggles echoing from the hill. That many children laughing has an almost wildlife biology quality to it. I told the girls that the noises the kids were making were almost like the sounds of a flock of happy birds. Such a pretty sound.
The birds are supposed to be there again tonight. So let me know if any of you have some extra cardboard and want to head over with me.
Every year in Portland thousands of Vaux Swift's arrive for about 3 weeks and call the chimney at a local school home. We are not talking 100 birds, but thousands of little swifts on their migratory trek.
And being Portland, this has become an annual community event. Last night was the first time that I was able to get to it and it was so cool. Jen, Shannon and I arrived at around 7, parked and walked to the school. Most folks were already happily camped out on the side of a super steep hill with their blankets, picnics, babies and dogs . Talking, chilling, just waiting.
Then the birds began to come. They would swirl, dive, glide and eventually all join a large cloud of birds in a ballet of motion circling the chimney. And then in one mass movement they focused the cloud homeward and began a mass exodus from the sky into the warmth of the chimney. Yea, it was cool.
But that was not at all the best part.
On the side of the steep, steep hill, kids in the know brought pieces of cardboard and were sliding down on their corrugated sleds. There were probably 50 kids of all ages doing this in a mosh. It was not "video games" as Strong Bad would say. It was so Old Skool. It was not marketed with special action figures or sponsored by Disney. Just kids + card board + hill = good time. And I kept getting distracted from the mystery of nature by the wonder of childhood. I can still hear the giggles echoing from the hill. That many children laughing has an almost wildlife biology quality to it. I told the girls that the noises the kids were making were almost like the sounds of a flock of happy birds. Such a pretty sound.
The birds are supposed to be there again tonight. So let me know if any of you have some extra cardboard and want to head over with me.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
not broken
Let me tell you something true. If you know a woman, anywhere over the age of 30, single without kids and still breathing, there are moments when she is alone in her bed with the piles of blankets on top and she feels totally broken.
Her style has come into and gone out of fashion more than once. She is no longer cutting edge. When she mentions The Love Boat to kids in their 20's, they look blankly back at her secret "old school" reference. Wrinkles have started to show on her skin. She weighs more than she wants to. (Or less.) She wonders if her "child-bearing" hips will ever be put to use. And often she finds herself telling stories of her past: drinking stories, adventure stories, boy meets girl stories . . .all old stories.
And when she roles over in the darkness and sees that still there is no one there to anchor her, she almost drowns amidst the quiet night. I know that sounds melodramatic, and yet, I am her some nights.
And in recent years, it's been harder for me to come back from the drowned feeling. It's been harder and harder to return to the bouyancy of hope. I question myself. I question my coolness. I questions my core beliefs. If I am no longer cutting edge, am I mainstream? Am I really smart? Or is it just a lie I tell myself? Is my faith real or am I buying an opiate because I have nothing better? If there is no Prince Charming yet, arent't the statistics starting to be my enemy? Am I Kink-FM? Am I Banana Republic? Or worse, The Gap? The questions come in torrents like tiny tsunamis and I fight to keep my head above the wave.
Yet, recently I have been remembering some things. I have a God that is in control of all things and He is just refining me each day to be more like Him. In that is love, peace, joy --the nontangibles that can make each day beautiful no matter what storm I am weathering.
And in the context of holding onto Christ, I begin to see myself in a different light. I can let go of the questions and see some truth. Um, I am cool. I am funny. I am smart. I have a heart that loves well and someone some day will probably be lucky enough to call it their own. I am weird. I am strong. I am probably even beautiful.
And last night I spent a few hours with Wendy, Jenn and Diane. All recently have ended relationships one way or another. All were feeling broken. And initially we were kind of a pathetic bunch, but then something happened. A great 80's song came on and Di started to dance. Then we all started swaying. I grabbed the camera and started shooting photos. The interpretive dance song by Verve came on. Di and Jen interpreted a new dance for Liser including a "baby" (aka my purse) in the interpretation. Jason came home and began playing tunes on the baby grand. We all started to sing and before long I couldn't sing for laughing. And as I drove home after singing The Rose, the Whitney Houston Body Guard theme and some song from Titanic, I was humming. And I was full. Full of laughter, friendship . . . full of ramminess. And full of hope. And I realized, I am not broken, but rich. So very rich.
Her style has come into and gone out of fashion more than once. She is no longer cutting edge. When she mentions The Love Boat to kids in their 20's, they look blankly back at her secret "old school" reference. Wrinkles have started to show on her skin. She weighs more than she wants to. (Or less.) She wonders if her "child-bearing" hips will ever be put to use. And often she finds herself telling stories of her past: drinking stories, adventure stories, boy meets girl stories . . .all old stories.
And when she roles over in the darkness and sees that still there is no one there to anchor her, she almost drowns amidst the quiet night. I know that sounds melodramatic, and yet, I am her some nights.
And in recent years, it's been harder for me to come back from the drowned feeling. It's been harder and harder to return to the bouyancy of hope. I question myself. I question my coolness. I questions my core beliefs. If I am no longer cutting edge, am I mainstream? Am I really smart? Or is it just a lie I tell myself? Is my faith real or am I buying an opiate because I have nothing better? If there is no Prince Charming yet, arent't the statistics starting to be my enemy? Am I Kink-FM? Am I Banana Republic? Or worse, The Gap? The questions come in torrents like tiny tsunamis and I fight to keep my head above the wave.
Yet, recently I have been remembering some things. I have a God that is in control of all things and He is just refining me each day to be more like Him. In that is love, peace, joy --the nontangibles that can make each day beautiful no matter what storm I am weathering.
And in the context of holding onto Christ, I begin to see myself in a different light. I can let go of the questions and see some truth. Um, I am cool. I am funny. I am smart. I have a heart that loves well and someone some day will probably be lucky enough to call it their own. I am weird. I am strong. I am probably even beautiful.
And last night I spent a few hours with Wendy, Jenn and Diane. All recently have ended relationships one way or another. All were feeling broken. And initially we were kind of a pathetic bunch, but then something happened. A great 80's song came on and Di started to dance. Then we all started swaying. I grabbed the camera and started shooting photos. The interpretive dance song by Verve came on. Di and Jen interpreted a new dance for Liser including a "baby" (aka my purse) in the interpretation. Jason came home and began playing tunes on the baby grand. We all started to sing and before long I couldn't sing for laughing. And as I drove home after singing The Rose, the Whitney Houston Body Guard theme and some song from Titanic, I was humming. And I was full. Full of laughter, friendship . . . full of ramminess. And full of hope. And I realized, I am not broken, but rich. So very rich.
stolen words
OK, OK. I didn't write this. At All. But I feel it.
And I'm hoping it will make you want to come to my wonderful city . . . (If you want to read more essays on Portland, go the the link.)
DIANA ABU-JABER
RETURN
You walk down the streets of this city, the city you realize you have fallen in love with, as hard and giddy as falling for any lover. Is that possible? You touch a concrete wall. In this city, you smell the river, which smells like the ocean. You think: my rainy city. Stop it, you think, try to curtail the love drug in you. But again you think, my rainy city. You watch sparrows slant through the plum blossoms, clouds everywhere. You've just returned.
It was last spring when you decided to leave your city. Spring rises up from the earth; in this city, it is like dipping your fingers in the icing. Spring feels like you are getting away with something. Spring--how is this possible? Spring in the softest city in the world--where people don't like to get up so they wear clothes like pajamas all day. Where the sky is gray and soft as flannel.
A year ago you were walking back to a hotel, explaining to yourself why you had to leave your city. It's time, you'd said. You'd sold your house, packed your things, now you were staying in a hotel room, waiting to go. Outside a bookstore, you ran into your friend S. You told your friend S. everything, about how it was time, how you'd decided to leave your city, and he laughed. And of all of the people you know, his is your favorite laugh, a sweet sss, a wisp of breath. He said to you, don't go. You shook your head, smiling, walking backwards toward your hotel, waving.
A city is a city is a city. But in this city, everyone is in love. People lean toward each other during conversations, as if they will kiss. You look at your hands, they look round and bright as pearls under this marble sky.
Last year, outside the hotel, a young girl had asked you, where do I get the No. 15? And you, who had no idea, you could not bear to disappoint her, so you turned around and gestured and made up detailed instructions that would make her unimaginably lost. Finally you confessed; you said, don't listen to me, I'm moving away. Why, where are you going? she'd asked, as if she did not want you to go.
The heavy glass doors to the hotel had swung open when you pressed on the gold bar. In the elevator, the young man with the big white tray on his shoulder blushed and told you it was only his second day delivering room service. He was bringing room 438 their coffee. You told him this was your last night in town; you were spending it in a hotel room. For some reason, he'd said to you, don't go.
In the window of your hotel room, the rain has gotten great and round as pearls, it fills the glass with its shining. You put your head down on the smooth gray sheets--this hotel smells of a thousand years--and you hear the rain and inside the rain you hear something speaking. It says: home.
Diana Abu-Jaber's recent novel, Crescent, won a National Endowment for the Arts award in 2003. It was also named a Notable Book of the Year by the Christian Science Monitor and won the 2004 PEN Center USA Award for Literary Fiction as well as a 2004 American Book Award. Her newest book, a memoir entitled The Language of Baklava‚ will be published in 2005. Abu-Jaber's work has appeared in such publications as Ms. , Salon, The New York Times and The Nation, and she frequently is featured on NPR. Her first novel, Arabian Jazz, won the Oregon Book Award in 1994.
And I'm hoping it will make you want to come to my wonderful city . . . (If you want to read more essays on Portland, go the the link.)
DIANA ABU-JABER
RETURN
You walk down the streets of this city, the city you realize you have fallen in love with, as hard and giddy as falling for any lover. Is that possible? You touch a concrete wall. In this city, you smell the river, which smells like the ocean. You think: my rainy city. Stop it, you think, try to curtail the love drug in you. But again you think, my rainy city. You watch sparrows slant through the plum blossoms, clouds everywhere. You've just returned.
It was last spring when you decided to leave your city. Spring rises up from the earth; in this city, it is like dipping your fingers in the icing. Spring feels like you are getting away with something. Spring--how is this possible? Spring in the softest city in the world--where people don't like to get up so they wear clothes like pajamas all day. Where the sky is gray and soft as flannel.
A year ago you were walking back to a hotel, explaining to yourself why you had to leave your city. It's time, you'd said. You'd sold your house, packed your things, now you were staying in a hotel room, waiting to go. Outside a bookstore, you ran into your friend S. You told your friend S. everything, about how it was time, how you'd decided to leave your city, and he laughed. And of all of the people you know, his is your favorite laugh, a sweet sss, a wisp of breath. He said to you, don't go. You shook your head, smiling, walking backwards toward your hotel, waving.
A city is a city is a city. But in this city, everyone is in love. People lean toward each other during conversations, as if they will kiss. You look at your hands, they look round and bright as pearls under this marble sky.
Last year, outside the hotel, a young girl had asked you, where do I get the No. 15? And you, who had no idea, you could not bear to disappoint her, so you turned around and gestured and made up detailed instructions that would make her unimaginably lost. Finally you confessed; you said, don't listen to me, I'm moving away. Why, where are you going? she'd asked, as if she did not want you to go.
The heavy glass doors to the hotel had swung open when you pressed on the gold bar. In the elevator, the young man with the big white tray on his shoulder blushed and told you it was only his second day delivering room service. He was bringing room 438 their coffee. You told him this was your last night in town; you were spending it in a hotel room. For some reason, he'd said to you, don't go.
In the window of your hotel room, the rain has gotten great and round as pearls, it fills the glass with its shining. You put your head down on the smooth gray sheets--this hotel smells of a thousand years--and you hear the rain and inside the rain you hear something speaking. It says: home.
Diana Abu-Jaber's recent novel, Crescent, won a National Endowment for the Arts award in 2003. It was also named a Notable Book of the Year by the Christian Science Monitor and won the 2004 PEN Center USA Award for Literary Fiction as well as a 2004 American Book Award. Her newest book, a memoir entitled The Language of Baklava‚ will be published in 2005. Abu-Jaber's work has appeared in such publications as Ms. , Salon, The New York Times and The Nation, and she frequently is featured on NPR. Her first novel, Arabian Jazz, won the Oregon Book Award in 1994.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Ahhhh, Internet
OK, so I have been in the process of moving and settling in for a little over 3 weeks. And the entire time I was internetless at home. So I kept meaning to post something at work, but that is just no fun.
So, last night I got back online at the new house. Ahhh.
Of course, these few weeks have made me realize my total reliance and addiction to the world wide waste of time. It's sad really. But, um, we all have our vices . . .
The photo is the dance party at Diane's house on Tuesday night. Yep, that is Diane with a 3 year old! When his parents got him into the car at the end of the night, all he could say was:
I want more dance party.
Don't we all?
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