July 31, 2012
I am alone in the house this morning. Sarah is still camping. Before she gets home I need to replace her chocolate and return to her room the book of erotic short stories. I have already cleared the livingroom of last night’s debauchery: cherry stems, jar half full of motherwort tea and the Kurt and Courtney CD that I watched and did not like but kinda had a crush on the filmmaker.
This evening I will stand on the water’s edge and think my thoughts as Bello thinks his. Love and sticks and fashion and food. We all want the same things.
July 18, 2012
I used to be a bike messenger. And a bike activist. And a bike enthusiast. We were one. My arm ran fluidly into her bars, my legs extending, bending, and circling around her wheels. My love for the machine and my desire to impress it, myself and others pushed me to ride with gusto.
And now I sit here with an ice pack on my knee first thing in the morning because I rode with so much god damn gusto ten years ago.
I think it was worth it. Most days it was worth it.
An injured knee means I can’t do much at all. No bike riding (obviously!), walking, hiking, swimming. No wheel-barrowing, no weed pulling, no lifting the straw bale from the truck. No sewing. No dancing.
Have I mentioned how much I love to move? This not moving thing is killing me. I have to rest the joint and so the only thing I can do is go to the river and lay on a blanket and read the new Vanity Fair or sit myself in the water up to my waist and stare at the tree line. A knee injury is very meditative. I see how useful it is to hold still, even though I’m distraught and feel like over-night I have become fat and old.
July 17, 2012
“Good times!” and he turns away from the circle, clapping his hands quickly, lightly, with odd rhythm. Arg, not already John! You can’t reflect on a moment that is presently occurring. You can’t sum it up before it has concluded, before we are done. As in, “Those were good times”. You mean right now? The times we are in? “Don’t say that, it makes me feel weird.”
But now I get it.
Last night people came over for dinner. A casual Monday night gathering with homemamde tortillas and fresh goat-milk ricotta mixed with berries. We ate, and chatted and little Bell went home early with her Dad and the adults sat at the table and picked at the fruit. John and Heather also left early and waved good-bye to those still seated. Good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye. And even though they could have stayed and even though they love us, they had to go. They have to go. And perhaps have already left. Good times, I thought to myself. Because that moment was already a memory. They don’t depart for another week but our time together has already passed.
July 14, 2012
It’s funny how taking ownership of your life is a similar feeling to being in total free fall. At least for me.
This fall I am going to present a Filly Foundations Collection. These will be your favorite pieces of the past re-made in new fabrics and new colors and available in all sizes year-round. This will be a permanent collection- it will never run out. This is what will allow you to wear the shit out of your Adventure Pants. You can always get another.
So…What are your favorite pieces of all time? Tell me, for real.
July 13, 2012
For the first six months John was in India. I weathered the winter in the airstream trailer and ate too much in Kenya’s small kitchen with the single overhead light with the pull string. He returned with the spring, a generous gift in a t-shirt and New Balance. Even in my sad and withdrawn state I could see that John’s presence signaled the start of something new. He and Heather moved into a house on Shaver Street. He was skeptical and kept referring to the people that lived there as kids. I almost think he said teenagers but maybe I just wish that he had. They were young and had dance parties and I was happy to stay at Kenya’s and avoid them. He was too. But over the course of the summer he softened and began to think of his house as a home and his housemates as friends. Overtime I felt the same. Their house was magical and became a focal point for art, music, and love.
John and Heather have lived at The Shaver House for… four years? Four years of shifting alliances and fruit flies. Four years of hot summer sun on the front porch and a no-shoes policy. The chicken coop got larger, the house-plants got larger, the view from the upstairs bathroom stayed the same. One would only need to chronicle the days and nights of the Shaver House to understand this particular community during this time. It is like a child’s hand clutching history, a surprising amount can be held within a small space.
Wednesday night was The Last Potluck at the Shaver House. And thanks to Seth Brown and his merry version of inebriation, it was…a grand farewell. Thank you for the time.
July 10, 2012
Yeah, my mom’s here. Little and tired, on her way back from a hugely successful art opening in Sun Valley Idaho, striped shirt and Sauconys, needing a glass of water. She is my friend and I drag her, willingly, to all the spots I love. Yesterday we were three Oregon-country-girls, crammed in the little red truck, Bello, heavy and hot, on our laps. Me and Sarah with my mom in the middle. She laughed her way from town to the naked beach on Sauvie Island and back again. She’s game for just about anything.
July 4, 2012
I’m wearing all blue again. A boxy periwinkle-blue linen shirt and roomy denim-blue pull-on pants. My sandals are red. I am dressed like an American on this day of agitated celebration.
In California fireworks are illegal. Because everything is. But, like any other banned substance, their are plenty of fireworks to be had. From the wharf you can look back at Seabright Beach and watch the competition. Groups of people from either end of the beach send rocketing explosions of light into the night sky and eventually, down the beach toward each other. The police arrest innocents and bystanders and the crowd disperses.
But not here. In Oregon fireworks are perfectly legal and families buy bushels full at the make-shift stands that pop up along MLK Boulevard. Neighborhood blocks close down to traffic and folks bbq and play ping-pong ball and eventually drunk dads revert to their teenage selves and risk blowing off their hands in the lighting of miniature bombs. A thick smoke rises over the city and dogs wail and flee.
I like to get out of town on the 4th. The revelry makes me nervous. And so Bello and I are heading east, in the little red truck, to a farm in the town of Sandy. Tonight I will gaze at the gentle spidery fireworks in the night sky, the soft twinkle and occasional streak of the stars. And I will wish for this life to go on forever.
July 3, 2012
Last night I sewed until Sarah got home. It was late. I put down the blouse and followed her from room to room recounting my day, listening as she did the same. There was nothing remarkable to share. Certainly no news about boys which is all that really matters right now. But that was ok, we still enjoyed sharing minor news. I took a shower and decided not to wash my hair. I sat on my bed and read while brushing my teeth. A wind had come up and a few rain drops could be heard bouncing off the leaves outside the window. I laid my head on the pillow and my wet hair piled around my temples. My knees were bent and when I suddenly laid my legs out flat, the sheet parachuted slowly to the bed. When it touched me it felt like a mother, or a nurse, tucking me in. I am at peace, I said to the darkness.
The unfamiliar is not wrong. It’s just new.
July 1, 2012
Letter from the front:
I write to you from a wet town, a river town, an overgrown marsh, a fertile valley. I write to you with a distracted mind, a guilt and a pleasure. I write to you, friend and lover, to admit. But also to delay.
Where have I been, I’m sure you have wondered. By now you know to take my absence as a sign of work being done, not of disrespect. I have something to show you. Something new and beautiful and dear. But not yet… not for a bit. Not until it is what it aspires to be.
Not until I am.
Until that time,