letters towards the outside

Dear Juniper Bush, growing in glory with garden spiders below my bedroom window, crawling with brown leaves fallen from overhanging trees, watered with the deep baths of beer/whiskey/humans, this letter is for you:

...

I was tracking and writing five minutes ago, three paragraphs deep in the best prose in THE WORLD, when I clicked the wrong button and it all disappeared.

Silence.

And begin again:

So.

Today (this very day) I am now (officially) an intern at a local alternative paper. A reporter there cautioned me to be "snarky" and looked me in the eyes, curious how I'd take the word. I probably grimaced/smiled in that uncomfortable way my family has, but inside I said: "Snarky? I was using that word before you were born!" Which would have been unnecessarily cocky and also a lie.

But oh the joy joy joy in my heart heart heart. Writing, I do it alone mostly and it's a lonely activity suitable for lonely whiskey drinking, lonely water drinking, lonely walks, lonely observations in coffee shops, and lonely trudges back home to bed. All this alone-ness is great, wonderful!, even more so if you are being published. Because as beautiful as it is to wallow in alone-ness all the time, it's nice that some ears are cocked in your direction and some eyes tracking ink laid down by your own right hand. It compels you not to screw things up--like, for example, your life, vision and perhaps soul.

Also it's nice.

Once stories get going, I'll post links up here.

Meanwhile, the city is still clinging to summer between the hours of 1 and 4 p.m., but otherwise it's cold and bugs and pretty plants are dying every day. All is well. I bicycle around and mess up my hair and ruin my shoes walking through parks. I'm living only a few blocks away from one of my favorite coffee shops. This is proving to be very bad for my wallet. If I get into art classes next week, it will be easier to stick to my strict budget and stay away from dens of coffee sin. I've managed to write every day, one of my goals. Hopefully good will come of it. We'll see.

Goodbye, dear Juniper Bush. May you flourish and slowly take over the sidewalk, the fence, and our hearts.

morning of the first day of panic

I admit that's a little dramatic. Being adult is not like being chased by rabid border collies, although it may be close and there is that feeling of imminent peril mingled with absurdity.

My sleep was dreams of money and relationships and oddly enough Drew Barrymore and the entire Barrymore clan all of whom are suffering from an inability to stay awake. Oprah was very concerned, especially when an elderly Barrymore climbed off the couch and fell asleep on the floor mid-sentence in denouncing the entire American Nation and most pharmaceutical companies.

While I sort out paying for art classes, printing off resumes, finding a second job, applying for internships, scouring the world for paying freelance gigs, and all such Godly joys, here are some stories published after my departure from Astoria:

The last EDP. Charming lady and I wanted her freckles. HEADLINE = "Mother's battle with multiple sclerosis inspires physical therapist"

Class of 59 profile. If this link doesn't work but you're really desperate to read the story, go to Google and type in "Karen Whitman, Astorian" and it should come up. Look for "Glass ceiling couldn't stop this graduate"

the brand new post

I spent five minutes crouched at an open window in a dark bedroom this morning, clothed in only my bathrobe, camera in hand, taking pictures of 7-year old school children waiting for their bus. It occurred to me that this may be some sort of felony. So, in case the law comes after me (brief reminder of a Clash song: When they kick out your front door, how you gonna come? With your hands on your head or on the trigger of your gun?), this is why I took the photos: for the artistic purpose of observing humanity in all stages of its slog and struggle.

Here is what I saw in 7 year old school children:

Girl aligns herself to pavement marks, grabs shoulder of Boy who is ninja-moving dangerously in the bike lane. Both bounce around and race like ferrets up and down the sidewalk with the serious rituals so important to childhood. Childhood, where you can be anything, a dragon who wants ice cream, but you better not stand with your knees bent. That's JUST WRONG. The code must not be broken, but the code changes every minute. In some ways childhood is just a really cute fascist regime. And they are altogether too small to be put on a bus and released into the wild like this. Parenting is one of the single greatest acts of stupidity or courage or wild faith (depending on the parent). The end.

Item 1: I'm going to continue this blog. It makes me write regularly and lord knows we all need structure and ritual.

Item 2: The purpose of this blog will be to document projects and observations. I have grand plans for this year and, gosh-heck-darn it, I will be successful.

Item 3: Today's word is CACOPHONY. As in that Windsor for the Derby song:

All your hopes and dreams they rise and fall
Secretly
A cacophony

Day 74: the end

Well, my dears, we have come to The End. Last day was today and I am slowly collapsing, inwards like a dead spider, all the breath gone from me. It feels like the end of a school year. Gravity pulls double-time. And the internet is encountering difficulties.

Goodnight.

Day 73: northern aggression

Labor Day story today. Booooooooooooring, but necessary. Last news meeting. And holy moly, guy just walked by with a very unfortunate rip in his pants and smelling of wholesome dirty things like garlic and 100% cotton clothing woven on looms made from driftwood by women with mud in their hair and sandals on their feet who are white but wish they were not, who make finger paint art and tell us Love not War but who know very little about either although they do know about lust and where babies come from.

There I go judging again.

He has a black notebook, pages held in place with a black band. When I see these notebooks I wonder what's really inside of them. They are constructed to make us think of poetry, Great American Novels - 1st Draft, and plans for beautiful objects like dirigibles. But probably what's really going on is a shopping list or a diary (the spiteful kind that isn't even constructed in complete sentences) and to do lists.

I don't know. Maybe he's legitimate. Maybe he's a genius. Maybe he should find a new pair of pants.

---

EDP went out on Monday: FEAR OF NEEDLES I feel like this is a fear that should never be mocked. It is healthy and right and good.

Day 72: minus 2 + the world is beautiful

Carried with the enthusiasm of a visiting friend, I am re-exploring this city between photo assignments and writing assignments and the small task of re-locating myself in two days. We found a fort and took it, a battlement and razed it, a bridge and we have crossed it, out flying low flying seagulls, food we have ingested and properly digested, beds we have slept in, coffee we have drunk, and streets we have wandered late at night in search of food.

Two days. Well. Technically four. So four (4) days of being here and then I will be in a long-expected, hoped-for, missed and loved somewhere else. I will miss Astoria next week, but this week I am tired with weddings and driving and just want to go home and sleep in a bed. A bed! The zenith beautiful sun-draped height of luxury: a bed, with a mattress and springs and all its sheets and maybe a quilt.

Have I wasted my time here? Yes and, obviously, no. This internship has been amazing...venture to say it saved my life? Maybe not that far, but a rung below perhaps. It has put my life firmly into a many-edged shape and it is time to go home, or to somewhere close. I have a stack of newspapers with my name lacing the columns and my pictures blurring in thick, cheap ink. I have contacts and connections into the journalism world, experience at my thumbprints, and a good wind at my back. Pat my own back for a second here. Okay.

But there is so much still that I haven't seen, that the busyness of the paper has made it difficult, impossible, lonely or tiring to see. I wish I had had more mornings in the kitchen, just me and a humming laptop, writing short stories. So I tell myself how I will write in a new kitchen. This has been my petri dish and now I am emboldened to wade into a larger pool, carrying a spinal cord with me. Or something.

(and now a Rapid Change of Subject)

This last weekend I had the absolute privilege to be in two of my very close-unto-my-heart friends' wedding. It was tiring and messy and make-up slabbed all over my face, but it was probably one of the best days of my life although I didn't realize it at the time. Today, I can tell you this:

How amazing it is to know people and to know the people I know, to have been born when they were alive. There were several instances last weekend, when I was shown grace and belief and was astounded again and again at faith. Don't ask me what I mean, I'm just writing. I know the best people in the world. The end. I giggle myself blue thinking about it. Also these are people who believe that I can accomplish what I don't even know about. Who call me an artist when they have seen only the editing notes of a dead animal that I vaguely term in artistic sentences as "my work."

How amazing it is that I could not only be friends with Tiffany, but could live with her, go to school with her, experience dirty houses with her, graduate in the same row of chairs, watch her and McKenzie from the beginning of their relationship through to marriage and be right there.

I'm not good with happy words, or positive words or things like "fun" and "amazing." I become redundant and adjective-challenged.

Here is the toast I wish I had given:

Despite how often we are led to believe that life is full of joy with faint twinges of sadness that will only lead into more joy, our lives are full of sadness in which there is sometimes the brief flashlight beam of joy.

You have both experienced sadness and you have both experienced joy.

May you be wise in sadness and wise in joy and may your joy be great.

Day 68: in the house of my fathers

Sometimes I forget that I love Johnny Greenwood. It's like when you forget how much you love your mother or your handwriting or the rabbit you had all those years ago, all so much a piece of your quilt that you take the stitch for granted. There's not a constant drama and we gage our lives by drama. The quiet days are rarely appreciated unless they follow an exceptionally loud week.

But anyway, Johnny Greenwood, who I love.

Currently: In Portland. For: Tiffany's wedding. Eyes: Are red with no sleep. So: bed will happen soon. After: I drink water and brush my teeth.

Day 67: disaster is narrowly avoided

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Bad times, my dear. I wrote that it was Saturday when in fact it was Friday. A phone message and a desperate cackle over proof pages saved me from embarrassment--like how a coat-tie-and-top-hat gentleman might save me from gross dishonor at the hands of a burly sailor when I was wandering the wharfs feeding beggar children.

Here's what ran recently:

KNAPPA DAYS



(you have already seen the other pictures. please look two posts down)

And a flea-piece about THE GOONIES:



And this rather non world-shattering bit about BEACH CLEAN UP, 25 YEARS OF. Google search link. Look for headline: SOLV recruits volunteers for North Coast beach clean-up Sept. 19.

Meanwhile, in a well-lit bookstore, coffee the right, obstructive shelf to the left, Miss Wilson (intern reporter) sits at an unsteady table waiting for people to call her back. The contents of the table: One large and heavy Dell computer, a black moleskin laying on its back, balancing a cell phone; next to this, a blue Bic pen; next to this a stenographer's notebook labeled Sept.09. Also there is a blue mug, 2/3 full of coffee.

Tomorrow I leave for Portland with a brief stop in Oregon City for drive-by fellowship and some catching up on the lives of other people. Friday will be a blur of cooking, with an interview squeezed into the late morning before the rehearsal dinner. Here comes the bride and such. Saturday's the wedding. Merriment and may God bless us, everyone.