idaho, day 1

(Andrew blurrily drinking something from Bucers)

There were a lot of questions on the way up to Moscow last night, the biggest one being: Will we ever get there?

I heard a woman encourage a pregnant woman once. She said, "I know. It's so rough in the last two months. Just remember, it's impossible to be pregnant forever." For the last two hours of the drive to Moscow, I kept telling myself that and then I wondered, "But what if it is possible?" Specifically: "What if it's possible to drive and drive and drive and die before you ever get to Moscow?"

But we made it. We're here. Laura's off gadding, something to do with school or responsibilities. Andrew was napping on the living room floor and I was having a writing crisis and feeling the weight of my exhaustion. The WOME (weight of my exhaustion) currently feels like two twin beds plus a great dane piled on top of an insubstantial plastic chair.

So far it's been a lovely trip, though I do have a few concerns. The top concern goes under the heading of "Traveling with Teenage Boys" and that concern is called "What do you feed them? And how often?" Laura ruled breakfast and I have successfully delivered lunch, but dinner is looming and I don't know what to do. Living alone means I don't really do those things called meals. I eat toast and salad and apples and I eat at weird times of the day or I don't eat at all and I just drink a lot of water because it seems like a smart thing to do or I drink coffee. Meals? What the....? I bake bread, totally an adult that way, but bread doesn't qualify as a real meal, I think, unless you're French and poor and starving and a character in a Victor Hugo novel.

break

photo by Alex Pajunas

Gonna see the sister this week because I have myself a new (ish) car and two days off of work. Brother #2's coming with me. There will be extensive documentation and lots of coffee. I need this break so badly.

I finished up the domestic violence series and Friend C. (not to be mistaken for C., who is also my friend but who doesn't live here anymore) was a kind and intelligent person and made sure I was scrambling all over jetties and beaches right after work on Friday morning so I couldn't obsess over the story and make myself crazy. I was so physically exhausted by the time he dropped me off back at home later that afternoon that all I could do was crawl into bed and watch "Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were Rabbit" and go to sleep. Hmmmm...sleep. I'd had barely any since Wednesday.

Here's that last story. I got a text from one of the women I interviewed after she read the story. It was so encouraging and kind. I was nervous about getting everything right, telling things truthfully...not just accurately, but getting the heart right.

Saturday, I finally crashed. Mumsy and Dan (Brother #3) delivered my new car to me and took away ZF. After they left, I just sat around, baked some cookies, read some books. Then came evening and the night of too much emotionality. Which is all kind of hilarious now. Especially when I remember a conversation I had with another friend earlier this week, before I'd finished the story but after I'd just wrapped up two very intense interviews with victims. I was sitting in my car and talking on the phone and telling him that it was a little disturbing to me that all the interviews hadn't really seemed to touch my emotional core. I just listened and wrote notes. I didn't get that sick feeling in my stomach like I used to (and still do) when I'm in court. Well, it all came down on Saturday. Technically, it started when I re-listened to my taped interviews with victims, but I still had a story to write so I was able to stay focused. Once the external prop (i.e. deadlines and writing to accomplish) was out of the way, though, the focus flew away and just left me feeling so unhappy about the world. I can't believe I so blithely proposed this project two months ago.

Anyway. I'm glad I have some time off. I'm going to use it well.

ode to ZF

The new car is coming today.

My infant brother is driving it.

Deep breathing.

So, the new car is coming today. It's a Subaru Legacy Outback.

BAM.

Obviously this car is completely superior to ZF, the lovely loser '89 Honda Accord I've been driving for about the last 6 years. In the new car I can fit guitars, kayaks, surfboards, BODIES. I can also drive on the beach and attempt logging trails. ZF barely clears the 8th street hill on a good day.

I love my ZF car. I recognize the need to move on when I have the money and inspiration to do so...you know, before ZF really starts breaking down and I have to start investing in a complete piece of junk. She's on the cusp right now. She could go either way in the next 6 months. A new car is necessary and, like I said...got the money for it right now. Although, now that the darn thing's purchased, I don't have the money any more. I'd better not get hit by a truck or blackmailed next week.

But, yes, totally love my car. She's taken me all over the place in various states of emotional highs and lows. To and fro from college, on adventures, on hikes, all over this new town. She has brought people to me. She has been broken into...one..two...at least four times, and stolen once for one truly awful week. Got her back. She has absolutely nothing of value inside of her anymore except for a Eugene public library Bach CD that's still stuck in the CD player and will stay there until they rip the thing out because during one break-in, someone stole the CD player faceplate.

For a while in order to listen to music, I used these itty bitty iPod speakers that I got when I opened my checking account at the bank. I'd set it up on my dash. Then someone stole that. So I stuck to singing to myself which has led to this habit I can't shake of singing softly to myself whenever I'm in a car...not just my car, any car. Every once in a while, I'd purchase those huge batteries (D batteries?) and haul along an old boom box so I could play tapes or CDs. I had to create this special throne for it, though, because the jolting of my car would make the CDs skip.

Things that have never happened to ZF:
- Never had a blowout
- Never just stopped running for no reason

That's a lot to be thankful for, I think.

Her only real troubles were an old radiator (the thing lasted from '89 to '08, though, how much can we complain, really?) and a bad starter (ultimately cost me less than $100 to fix). ZF has amazing gas mileage too. Did I mention that? This is a good car. A really good car. And now I'm casting her away for something shiny that will probably crush my heart with its cold allwheeldrive heart.

fears

“It is a fearful thing to love what death can touch.” - Anonymous

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When I worked at a bakery in Eugene, we made a list of fears. I found it again today.

Courtney is afraid of the economy because she is graduating this year and is worried about how hard it will be to find a job. She wants to work in a non-profit organization. Doing what…she’s not exactly sure.

Trevor is afraid of poverty. To him poverty manifests itself primarily in a lack of food. Trevor is currently eating a bagel.

Claire used to be afraid of accidentally letting a vampire into the house or accidentally saying “Bloody Mary” three times. She also used to be afraid that her family would end up living on the street.

Megan was afraid of being cooked in a pot; it was a reoccurring nightmare.

Ben is afraid of rabid, flying piranhas. That and people knowing what he's actually afraid of and judging him for his fears.

We are all afraid that we have grown stupider since being in college.

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Today I'm afraid that I might have a fever. I am afraid of finding a spider nest in my bass amp. I'm afraid that I'm developing a hunchback from so much sitting in front of a computer.

saddle mountain

Went hiking last weekend. Unlike this weekend. Coastal storms, don't you know. Yesterday, I spent time by the river in a friend's truck and we watched the trees blow sideways and the water rush and the rain fall and it looked particularly miserable.

Anyway, back when life was beautiful, worth living, etc:













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Part 2 of 3: Domestic Violence in Clatsop County.

I didn't write this story about BABY SCANDAL. I was on deadline for two other stories that morning so another reporter took it for me, but now I get all these calls from New Zealand journalists. "What say we trade some information?" but sometimes it sounds like they're saying something else and we spend a lot of time yelling at each other: "WHAT? I'M SORRY? WHAT?" International calls being what they are.

somewhere there's a place for us

Margaret Atwood. It's a caddish person who says definitive things about other people's souls, especially people they don't know, but I kind of feel like she's just showing off with "The Blind Assassin." Like, "Oh, hi, so you're trying to write ONE novel? How...droll. Me? Yes. I've written quite a few novels. In fact, this one...technically it's THREE novels in ONE." Then she sits back all smug and offers you some more coffee and you want to hate her but she's so much nicer than Ursula K. LeGuin and she is offering you more coffee and it is her house. So, really, you can't throw the coffee in her face and stab her with a kitchen knife and run screaming down the alder-bordered lane. Much as you might like to.

A sort-of-friend here told me Tom Stoppard is aggravating because every line the man writes is perfect and incorruptible. True statement. I replied with something I now suspect was propaganda shoved down my throat by my otherwise wonderful jazz guitar teacher: "But isn't it exciting that such beauty exists in the world? That there's something to aspire to?" My friend, who is also a writer and far more productive than I am, stared at me blankly and then sighed. "No, Katie, it's depressing." And, while re-reading "The Blind Assassin" yesterday, I know what he means. I love Margaret Atwood for what she's done. I also kind of hate her.

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People who drink beer and talk to themselves should find somewhere else to hang out. Also, the girl who keeps cracking up outside. MOST ANNOYING LAUGH. Like a mosquito whine except louder and more like a bark. I refuse to believe the guy she's with is that hilarious so what's she laughing about? He looks like he isn't doing much except waggling his eyebrows. Maybe that sets her off. He looks completely cowed by this girl, though, nervous that any second she's going to take her purple-painted nails, cigarette and trendy grandma sweater and disappear out of his life forever to start dating a bartender. Rough roads, honey. It makes me think of the Disney Peter Pan when Wendy's sewing Peter's shadow onto his feet and jabbering away, oblivious and cracking herself up and Peter's baffled. He doesn't even need to be there except as a sort of marker to direct the flow of words toward. Scratching his head, he says, "Girls talk too much." And chuckle-face Wendy says, "Hahaha, yes, girls talk too much...hmmmmm? ...Oh."

Good job, Peter.

Actually, the conversation outside isn't like that at all. What was I thinking?

Laughs, like exclamation points, should be used sparingly otherwise we get confused. Smile too much and people wonder what you're worried about. Dogs might smile because they're happy to see you but chimpanzees smile to show you their teeth. It's a hostile display. BACK OFF. Hence the term "She laughed off the suggestion that she was the one who killed the puppies and sent those nasty, insinuating letters to the city councilman."

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In newspaperland, I'm feeling a little worn out. But I'm going to laugh that off.

Currently working on a series about domestic violence in Clatsop County.

Here's the first installment

Here's a stabbing.

12 hours of sleep & the spider

The spider was as big as my face and I killed it with my left-foot running shoe. The first pass with the shoe only knocked the spider to the ground and there was that sickening moment when it was scrambling, all eight legs vicious and flailing. It was going to escape. I raised my shoe a second time and crushed its life away. Then I went back to bed. The spider is still there, between my bass amp and my kitchen door, a flat spider smudge, a warning to the others.

Now. The story, in context...

I fell asleep last night at 6:30. One minute I was reading "Clockers" by Richard Price and the drug dealer with the ulcer was furtively trailing another drug dealer who may or may not be a hired killer. The next minute it was 7:53 p.m. and I was trying to figure out if it was morning or night and what exactly was going on. There was somewhere I was supposed to be. Wasn't there? Confused, I decided to make my life easier and stumbled across the room, turned off the light and went back to sleep.

5:43 a.m.: I woke up. Wide awake. Kind of. Was it day or night? Rain pouring down outside. Check the window, light looks the same at 5 a.m. as it does at the middle of the night. I felt very little motivation to be actively awake, but, darn it, I wasn't tired. I was moving toward the kitchen when -- pause gasp heart attack -- BIGGEST SPIDER IN THE WORLD, crouched and evil-looking. Massive, lying in wait for babies, virgins, puppies and truth. No way I'm going back to sleep with that monster lurking. But you know the rest of the story.

7:53 a.m.: Wake up again. Groggily assemble clothing and push hair into something somewhat resembling dignity. Check my phone. Two texts, both from Bishop, both from last night. The first one reads: "Where are you?" The second one, several hours after the first: "Did you fall asleep?"

THAT'S where I was supposed to be last night, at the sports bar with Bishop, watching the Giants game.

Oops.

Watching Giants games with Bishop might be my new favorite thing to do in Astoria, even though it's only happened once before. It's like watching Nebraska games with my sister, or following a forester in the forest. The folks dig this stuff. They are closer to despair and elation in this element, be it football, baseball or forest, than they are anywhere else. Sincere and wondrous and it pulls me in. I'm a sucker for honesty.

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Some news stories, if any of you still care (and I've been told at least four times this week that my job doesn't matter. It gets to one after a while, but one must make one's money somehow and journalism is my equivalent of football so...yes, we move on)

1. Glory be! A boat! Boat is a weird word. Booo-at is how it SHOULD be pronounced, I think. Let's change this together.

2. Controversy.