Aint There Nothin I Can Take?

I woke up this morning knowing that I was the One who handed a hangover to a few pewny feeling individuals. It was weird. I love the way that behind the bar, more or less completely sober, the crowd is not scary- I don't have panic attacks, I don't feel like I am completely out of place, or ridiculous for being there. I feel confident, and glad to have so much to focus on when things get busy. In fact last night, I felt important; when my supervision was behind the bar with me, it felt like I was some kind of parent- tending to a group of hysterical, sugar high children. "But mo-om! Dad said I could!" and vise-versa. So far, he still does the disciplining. I am working on honing my drunk people instincts so I know when to cut them off and how- after all, I am going to have to be alone in there eventually.

I'm glad the children don't call me in the morning, screaming "DOCTOR! IS THERE NOTHING I CAN TAKE TO RELIEVE THIS BELLY ACHE?" They tipped me really well, so I guess it's the least I can do to answer the phone if they do. I would say, take something to make you sleepy after your drink a gallon of water &/or ginger root, or mint tea and a multi vitimin. I would say take a long nap, and call me in the morning, but not until then! and drink less poison next time you just want to get your buzz and let loose a little.

Watching people's behavior around booze makes me realize that fine line I've been oblivious to- that line between having a good time and taking or doing too much. When under the influence of any drug, be it a noxious substance, a powerful emotion or brain chemical response (like adrenaline), people tend to believe that more is better. We know there is a line, but we don't care, or we want to believe that we can feel better than we already do if we take more.
This makes me appreciate the old school teachings about moderation.

I've been told as often as I am out in public lately, how very "European" I look. One splendid individual even called me "that Russian looking bitch".
I wish someone would enlighten me on how different, visually, people are based on ethnic origins. I mean, I'm not color blind, but all pasty white folks look the same to me.
The Russian reference makes me think of the Baba Yaga stories from Clarissa Estes's Women Who Run With The Wolves, but I assume that not all Russian women look like the beautiful child devouring, cauldron riding, house with chicken legs living in old Crone. Do you see the resemblance?

Anyway, speaking of cauldrons, today I craved beef so I put a chuck roast in the 200 degree oven before coffee shop work.
Threw in bay leaves, a splash of apple cider vinegar, some wine, some various spices, carrot, onion and pepper.
It was delicious and falling apart by four thirty, and there was a flavorful broth in the dish. I can't pass up an opportunity to make several meals from one, so I let the roast cool and ripped off a chunk for stroganoff tomorrow, and chopped up the rest for soup tonight.
Into the broth and beef I added some bean and lentil mix, vegetable juice, some more carrot and onion, some broken up linguine, and I couldn't bring myself to throw away the beautiful carrot tops, so I chopped them up and threw them in! Dried onion, ground mustard, and a smoked chipotle chilli powder seasoned my soup.
The bread is getting stale so I'll enjoy ripping off large chunks and dipping in tonight!
Note: I shouldn't have used dried (unsoaked) beans. I know better. Now I should wait to eat till they are cooked, but there's just no way I'm coming home from cat sitting Willie Nelson and chasing Maggie all over that compound in Oysterville without a ravenous appetite.

And I will leave you with this fun song. A new find and Fave!

Eyes. Diamond Eyes- Doofus!

Cobain wrote "don't read my diary when I'm gone", then he wrote on the same page, below those words "please read my diary." He pleads in messy scrawls, "look through my things, and figure me out."

I don't know why I write, other than that I can relate to that scribble.
I don't know why I write in this format, instead of in a diary, under lock and key, hidden in the laundry pile.

The book "Cobain Unseen" by Charles Cross was at the book shop, as if waiting just for me, when I came back from Olympia. It belonged to a brilliant woman from Oysterville who recently lost her wealth of brains to the un treated damages of multiple strokes. She knew and liked Cross, and collected his every title. I don't really think she cracked this book open at all though. Or maybe she did and the weight of it's contents drove her bonkers. I hope that when I "lose it", my friends and family give my books away too, to book shops and stuffy literature snobs who need to read Hitch Hiker's Guide. I hope they give Winter's Bone to a spoiled brat like I was as a teen, who thinks life is so sad. I hope they give my copy of Island of the Secret Love Nun to a religious Puritan, as sexually frustrated as it's broken manhood-ed main character. I love my books.
I don't love your books, I love my books. I want walls and walls of books- but for them to be mine, I must read them- touch every page, get katsup on some of them, ruin the corners. I hate e-books, oh I loathe Kindle. But if that's for you, that's for you. NBD.
I am terribly off-track.
What was it I was going toward?



The theme of being seen and seeing other people, and what that means to me pops up a lot in my writing lately. The title ,"Unseen", grabbed me by the belly button, and the work of beautiful musings for and about Cobain hasn't let me go since I got back home, to the cold sun on the back porch- I got my tan sitting and reading and looking at the photos in this cool book. Cross wrote that Cobain left his diaries out on coffee tables and sofas. That he often read aloud from them, and encouraged his acquaintances to read from them. He was a collector of the obscure, appreciative and hungry for the constant reminder that things are always a little bit twisted, a little more dark and fucked up than all the good ol' folks around want to admit out loud, hear about or recognize in art, music, writing, etc. I have the sneaking suspicion that Cobain was lovely and fragile like so many of us are- but he grew to hate it more than I care to.



Sure I resent the fragile loveliness I see in myself and others, but I'd rather work hard to keep those parts alive and soft than do nothing about the process of getting hard, and letting the loveliness die. You'd end up soulless, with a chip on your shoulder and nothing interesting to say or do, but always with something to say or do. Hah. You'd be just like Fred.

I was thinking yesterday: when did I become such a sucker for bad love? Was it the separation of my parents? Is it just the fact that I haven't been able to see and handle the anger and frustration of life in general, and it comes out sideways in the form of the people I choose to become attached to, and why.
From the twenty four year old when I was seventeen, whom I got my early puppy-dog eyed training from, or the unattainable spawn of my bookstore friend- the idea of whom is my absolute Dream Boat, the thing I should probably "hold out" for, but what do I know- he has no clue and probably won't ever snuggle up close enough for me to find out, it's all unhealthy, pining and complaining. EMT Boy/Toy, is muuuuuch younger than any guy I've ever accidentally grown accustomed to, and he still got me to assume the pining puppy dog position in an instant! Maybe he didn't mean to, but that has sure my reaction. What a tell.
With Fred, I spent a lot of time looking for reasons to pout, and with him the effing space was overflowing with them- now, did I ever look at that and decide all those reasons to pout may be a sign that this is bad love? Hell no.

My Albanian tongued boss is more sweet to me than Boat even was, and he was the most polite and sweet person with a hose in his pants that I think I have ever met, besides my brother- who is the sultan of sweet.
BUUUt, The word boss, combined with my past all-or-nothing messy way of reacting to outside of the family sweetness from males, combined with some kind of gut feeling that I don't want to all-or-nothing anymore, and I have to break the habit, just makes me want to turn away from the whole concept of partnering up any more, ever, ever again, with anyone until I have known them for twenty years first.

Okay, that was a smidge mellow-drama.

Last night was interesting.
The boys were fun and didn't make me feel uncomfortable at all, which I truly appreciate. Maybe it was just disappointing that we didn't get to see boobies with Frank for his birthday, and had to get pushed around the pool table by Canadians all night at a no-boobies allowed type bar instead, but my mood was not cool, and I growled and scowled all the way home.
I had to try really hard to keep up the appearance that I was not miserable (not due to company! I probably would have been cranky even if I was hanging out with jolly saint effing Nicholas last night, with the toxic black goo for thoughts that I was having)  to the people around me, I'm pretty sure that it had nothing to do with boobies.
It's my expectations, my bad habits when it comes to men, how I "get my kicks", and apparently, also my expectations and misunderstandings involving even little-boy-wanna-be men. Who I truly thought I wouldn't become attached to.

Today is a day for hanging out with maggs, drinking sleep time tea, taking a break from ciggarettes, binge eating a little, and reading a few pages of my beloved books. Today is not a day for being lonely.
Today is my day to exist for myself, and let those wanting to follow do so. But today is not for pining.
Not for feeling shameful.
Not for being judgmental, or for burrowing into my idea of how things are.
Today is for letting things be what they are. I'm remembering the concept of surrender, and my visual is that of  a giant wave covering me in life as I just stand on the beach and surrender.



Please, read my blog.
Go through my things, and figure me out.
Reprogram my brain and make me less lovely,
So that when it doesn't work out, I won't feel enough to care.

Diamond Somehing or Other

After tonight, I miss Dream Boat like I missed my dog and apartment when I was in Olympia.
I am homesick for a Boat I don't even truly know.

I want his small town understanding mixed with his city love for Seattle.
I want his appreciation for the Deftones, and Maynard and music period. Music, not just rap all the damn time or popular radio station country/western, or wtf they call it..
I want his broken heart for his dead father, and I want to know what his father's favorite book is so that I can read it, and understand the quote from it Boat had tattood to his arm.
I want his balld head, atop his tall skinny-but-not-too-skinny body. The way my hands shake when I see him, the way my guts tangle up when I hear a voice mail from him. Just the way I honestly wouldn't change a thing about him is a strange and weird sensation to my critical, defensive/scaredy cat mentality.
I want his intelligence and maturity mixed with his easy going sense of humor in my life.
I want his eyes locked into mine like they were when we shared a chaise and faced each other, cross-legged and squinting past the sun and discussed expression itself.
I want him to see me, in the Don Juan, Casteneda sense of the word.
I want to see him, in any sense of  the word.

I wish my desperation for this practical stranger was anything but desperate.

I feel ashamed for feeling these un-reciprocated things.
But I know that I would always ask of the people around me to feel what they feel- do what's in their hearts to do. Even if that means making ridiculous gifts for people, and bringing cabbage rolls to your boss because if you hadn't, you'd be too embarrassed and ashamed to show up for work after your Jack Daniels shenanigans...
I wish that 20 year old EMT/firefighter stayed the hell out of my life, and I never saw him again after my time with him two exes ago, and all I had to agonize over at this time was Boat and maybe my boss.
But, life goes on, and adds to the complications every other day- so don't blink.

Boat is miles and miles and hours upon hours away.
With no preconceived intentions of ever seeing or speaking to me. Yet, I see his mother everyday that I work at Adelaide's and I think of him every other time I see her. She loves to talk about him.
His intelligence and creativity and artistic craziness keep him far far away, as his social smarts keep him from me when he is here visiting.

I get attention all the time from old timers, but they wouldn't be able to keep up with me, and I need something to look at besides my own birthday suit. There are people like my puppy dog trainer who are sweet at first, but get bored eventually and show that they are too stupid to love me. There are pretty little young things around all the time, but they are looking for the younger chicks, or boys, or tonka trucks, or whatever it is they do these days and wouldn't give me the time of day. There are also one or two males in my life with evident little crushes for me and I don't know what to do with it, nothing about it is tugging my the button like it has before.

Meanwhile, here I am, sea sick, stuck on my Boat.

South of Somewhere

It's just north of July in a sacred place, surrounded in solitude.
It's beauty like the scary starkness of a long dead desert at dusk.
It's lonely and heart break, but it's the sustenance that brings you to another day, which might be different.

Felt good to get home.
Felt good to feel slightly less alone, even if it's just the Ocean keeping me.

Mom says to be still and let myself be loved. I think it's the best advice I've heard in my life, for anyone, anywhere.

Haven't really talked to my left shoulder angel in almost a week, but I'm not taking it personally. There are many things needing painted and photographed, and I am neither.

Saturday morning I awoke with a revelation, "I need to get a bar gig, a server gig. Something that's not in the garden, in the mud, something that's not so lonesome."
A few days of July rain will make folks psychotic faster than four months of February around here.
We are greedy with our sun.
Personally, coming home from the busy city to quiet rain felt just right, thank you!
The creative static from the summer rain made the perfume of ocean park at night amplified, and the compulsion to communicate with living and breathing people overwhelmed and compelled me.
To be seen, to see, to chat with a lonely old stranger at a quiet bar and to reacquaint myself with the bartender there, an old friend- she once told me to stop being such a stranger in my own town, that she would be happy spending time with me even if it meant just watching me knit!
I talked about my plans to take on a few more hours, possibly behind a bar someplace, and what-d-ya know, by early Sunday morning, I had the promise to start training behind his bar this Tuesday!
Early Sunday morning was also filled with the bizzarre sensation of wanting my lonely bed back. I have a terrible weakness for EMT/Firefighters who want to protect me from the big mean DUI writing policemen. This one is ten years younger than the men I've been acquainted with, and knew much more about pouring concrete than acquainting himself with a woman, if you know what I mean.
It wasn't lonely.

It wasn't anywhere near that fantasy of being adored and talked to for months before being worshiped in naked glory like I will always hope for, but it wasn't lonely, and it wasn't not-fun, so that's good.

And I've secured another job, possibly with fantastic tips, and I'm pretty sure the bar will be around a while longer than my beloved Adelaide's.

This Little Room

There is a root, an anchoring force attached to me, when I am in this little room in this little town.

There are people in my life, in this building, due to random events in general- who are so incredibly comforting to be around, who are there because they know me and we want to be connected. My family are incredibly comforting as well, and not because it has always been that way- because we sincerely, love and understand one another. My family sees me more completely than anyone alive. They have not known my best and worst in the way that lovers have, but they have known me to my core, and they love me passionately. and now they are living in a town not so far away, with a lot of neighbors.
If I ever feel completely rootless in this world, I know that within their hearts where ever that is, a strong feeling comes around with thought of me, and that is what makes sense to me in this world, what I crave like water.

This is what makes sense to me.
But my slice of this exists in this place, at this time. It will change.
Nothing matters as much to me as the roles I play in the lives of others and the experience, opportunities, and contentedness that is organic, true connections, but these things always change!
During the past seven years- maggie's life time at least, of my 23 years, I have sheltered this growing root in my personality under romantic relationships, the fragmented and mended relationships with my family, and the phenomenon that is a stranger looking at you long enough, until they say that they know you.

The phenomenon, of becoming connected to a co-worker, a friend of a friend, a fellow hobby-ist, over time without rush, as apparently for the socially stupid, is a painstakingly long journey nearly void of instant gratification. Don't get me wrong, it is also a great many wonderful things, which I love. This phenomena is like water to my root. But it's an over-sheltered, naive, drama queen of a cactus root, and makes due with what she gets. I am comfortable with the pace here. I am attached, I guess, in the worst way.

I think of moving to the place I just ran from, at 60mph most of the way, in terms of some possible love affair.
But my first exposure as a naked faced lone wolf in the Voyeur was cruelly realistic.
The traffic, the sheer number of people, the ego, the importance, the pace- it's just so different, and from this first glance, I am surprised that I am not as evolved, and cool as I thought I was!

Thinking, this must be one of those things that you can't force- you don't just move to a place, no job, no rent.
I need to make a strong, stable, comfortable contact. A job opportunity with housing-? I don't know.
But jumping into the city, not having a friend to behold, thinking that people see and want to see- people just want to be seen, and usually they bring a chosen audience, I had no business being there, it was not the place I belong at all. For now I think the place I belong really is here, in this apartment. With maggie, the stressed out terrier. GEez, she's been through a whole bunch in her lifetime for a house pet.

Something tells me I'm just due to surrender to the disconnected, no-place-in-the-universe-for-me attitude, and be alive here, now, and stop being so intent on why and how and where I make a living.
I just need to focus on being alive. At 23 I've been through a lot, and there's a ways ahead of me, so I think I'm due for a little unglamorous, small time, single life. For the rest of the summer, then I'll know more people, have more money, have more of a sense of how to be a provider.
This tiny ocean village can be my lonely love affair. For now.  

My Little Part

This blog is some kind of little, tiny shadow in the google world.
I know that the few can directly access it.
I know it's little.

May I draw a cave here?
May I say my love died last month?
Here, I can tell you.

Everything I see I see with him in the memory, and in the hope of the future.
I thought I understood, by now, at the depths of me, that it is over and done with, forever, and that its a good thing.
But I still dream every night with his face, or hands, or grasp somehow involved. He is everywhere out of perhaps nothing more than habit, as far as I can tell, and this was only one year spent of how many in a lifetime?

I experience a new kind of cry, this night. It's the fountain from my youth but there is no snot or screaming or choking.

I forced myself out, into public tonight. By two p.m., halfway through my shift, I was sick of being sad, mad about it. I fought back tears for three hours today at the coffee shop, the likes of which I haven't experienced since during my year of strong, bad love with the man in the long black coat.
I forced myself to the booze which I thought was too strong for me, had to much power over me, but I found that weakness is not my excuse- there is no excuse,. I had the control to order drinks slowly, to drink plenty of water, to be composed- completely. I was myself, and everything went great, I am surprised; before, during, and after the drunk wore off.
I was even cool enough to decide at a still half-to-midnight to continue my water binge and excuse myself on-a-count-a I know my limits, and John's cousins came in to the establishment. (They use to be my nemesis, kind of.)
Fucking de ja fuckin something.
I forced myself into social uncertainty. I made a few friends, which I only have that one bar in common with...so...yeah. But I did the social thing just fine. I knew a few of the same people as the other people, I was enchanting, and met everyone in the room. None of it triggered war visions.
This I found to be satisfying as on my way home, from oh-so-far away in the middle of the night, the police officers pulled over, and ticketed several not me people, and I got home, safe and sobbing to my beautiful, amazing, kissy MAGGIE DOG.

Get off This!

My little tinker toy brain is skipping like a record!
The pattern of the mood swing/ war flashback starts with a trigger and ends with an ah-ha moment.
In between, there is a frantic desire to rip off my skin and run away from it, and just be nasty and raw for a while.
He's gone, and I still have this nasty pattern in my life! I wish people could be warned, that they could
understand how careful they need to be about who they spend their time with. Granted, we grow up in family units comprised of folks who may not be the most healthy individuals for our development, and we can't do a damn thing about it. That doesn't mean we have to put anyone in our lives, just because they are pretty, and sound good when they speak.
It looked so good on paper.

Past few days, I've been obsessing about my cursed fourth of july habit.
I wrote Boat an email out of my embarrassment, out of my craving for positive attention- oh won't someone tell me I'm not the SCUM I think I am! I also asked about this and that, informed him that I'd be visiting my folks near his town, so he should probably hide behind a thick sturdy door. He never did respond, and I wish he would, if for no reason other than to be acknowledged.
I liked that he called at three am, just to be polite.
Now, he's too freaked out, bored, busy, or uninterested to respond. That's okay- I do know that it's not his responsibility to acknowledge me, to fluff me up. That's the whole point, I crave fluffment more than a grown ass woman ought to.

Maybe I should send my nemises a care package of spagetti-os.
Maybe I should just learn to live with the fact that maybe I really won't function properly because I'm not enough like her. Find a way to enjoy my crooked edges, and hide under rocks instead of venture out to where she or fred might be. Woo-hoo, fuck.
Not

Charity and Minus

When Minus becomes awake once again, early, in the morning-most hours, you would think him a cyborg.
He seems programmed for awakeness, for success and composure!
He is drawn from the bed as a four year old is drawn to a half melted waffle cone, two scoops!
According to Minus, coffee is welcomed, though not necessarily required, and he enjoyed a light snack in between waking up time and the next thing. Some days, Minus even took off without the need for fuel at all! The fullness in being alive, awake! took him from start to the end, of the day and everything there is to say about him, and usually at a decent time!

Charity, however, keeps his eyes closed well after he has lost that long black veil of sleep, and prays that it will come back. There is always a responsible reason to egg him out of bed, though. And he does comply.

Every step is labored, every thought drenched in fifteen different facets of query and perception, intentions and reactions, lessons learning, lessons learned- test! Always a test, everyday a test, to Charity. The following day being the grade, but also, another test. Maybe it was karma, or maybe he was as neurotic as a Woody Allen character- but Charity noticed the way things balanced out. He paid note to the connections between his actions and the circumstances he navigated.
Coffee is welcomed, and requested. Then again, so are so many things, for Charity is never satisfied.




I want to get to know people, be a round peg in a round hole, and belong with a crowd brought together in a socially organic manner while still being and independent and confident member of society? What is it like to feel like you have done that right?
Like, all right. With a circle around it...
Don't get me wrong, I have my moments, but they shatter.
How do people keep control of that good moment-mode, knowing that they are important and interesting and insignificant at the same time with out anyone expressing it (unless they want to get laid) and still keep a straight face?

People rarely speak directly about what is or is not significant.
Why things are or are not what they may or may not seem to be.
We don't express ourselves fully, due to some kind of commitment to propriety, or acceptability- or just because folks have to behave a certain way in order to attract one another or not.
Just another biological brain fart from the heavens.

I listened to my self sing and play the guitar on a recording which was made a few days ago in the coffee shop. I was surprised at how different my voice sounded on the recording than it does in my head.
I can already see parts I need to re learn and I understand how I will need to improve, now that I have listened to it from a different perspective.
Something tells me that this will be an ongoing, long term hobby!
Hearing my singing was strange, but hearing my speech was bizarre! The phrasing I use, the tones, the rhythm, everything is weirdly not what I hear in my head. I sounded so proper, so fragile and lovely.
For the first time I realized since sis coined the term that I don't know if I want people to know about that.
Maybe I should work on changing my speech voice too. Even the way I speak is unsure, powerless, fragile, and lovely.
I don't like it.

I bet people don't talk about what's really significant because they have no fucking clue, and there are some who are interested in wondering, and those who are interested in adapting, screwing and evolving through this biological chemical reaction that is the Sick Significant ride we call Life.
(as in get a life, or live life to the fullest.)
 

Family Recipe

Yesterday Maggie and I drove home in the morning sun from a very peaceful fourth of July in Naselle.

The time spent with my sister was much needed, and I felt like running there after work instead of driving!
She is so good to me, and good for me to be around.

When we reached the windy peninsula, a thought occurred to me: Cook!
So I wandered into the store for supplies and it also occurred to me that at nine a.m. the obnoxious Fourth Crazies were already taking off, and good riddance!

I discovered that it is perfectly acceptable to cook up a rich, soupy sauce and dump it in a casserole of uncooked pasta, and bake it! So, I decided to give it a try. I used white sauce and accidentally bought quick cook pasta, I don't know which was the culprit but the dish turned out a little gummy, but still perfectly acceptable!

I have been craving apricots like crazy, as well as Aunt's Rhubarb bars, but missed out on the rhubarb, so I decided to make an apricot and apple tart with the recipe- I found out that I do not own measuring cups anymore. Guess I lost them in the divorce. Ha-ha.

This is my view of Maggie in the morning, from my bed. It is a cheerful sight, to wake up, and see her flat on her back, enjoying the sofa!
I woke up, vainly wishing for the feel of skin instead of sheets for the Nth time since the world ended.
It is an interesting emotion. It's a little creepy, a little sad, but there's something good in it- like I know I'm still alive. There is so much to look forward to.
My sister tells me that I shouldn't say mean things about myself, I am not in the wrong, and that I am fragile and lovely. This makes me feel good- reminds me that I will of course, bump into love again, that it will be good. It will happen when I am glowing and happy and it will SHINE!
And it will beat the pants off fancy linen sheets.
Until then, I am saving up for a set!

There's an Angel just over my left shoulder

These photos were taken by a very good friend of mine.
It's art- and it's ME!

Sometimes we all need to be reminded that we are ART!
Unlike photographic art however, we are rarely ever stationary, and never complete!

I Wish your Mother

That stupid boat of dreams.
What a Joke!

I wish His mother could anonymously receive a recording of the evening!

I wish I could, too.

What the fucking FUCK happened?

I left. That's for sure.

My Nemesis showed up at my TEST hang out with dream boat, and I effing left, after three or so hours, thank you very MUCH.
and then came back because I left my goddamn phone!
But I'm not dead, even though I feel like I should be, once a fuggin'gain.

I swear, to this second, I swear- she is a fugging wonderful person and exceptionally socially appropriate, and female- ary - domesticat-ical...
BWAHAHAHHA.

Sorry.... I can't help it... I CANT TAKE HER SERIOUSLY
 I can't make her make sense- I can't make this socially condensed situation make sense and it drives me nuts!

Pick it up, and start again, I suppose.

P.s. I made poached eggs over fried ham and flat bread for breakfast today, covered in homemade cream-of-asparagus soup from my co-worker, and it was FABULOUS!

So was my walk with maggie, when I had to un-tie the plastic bag and pick up  a second poop, because she has been too terrified to poop normally.
Thanks, Tourists!!

She Can Not Live in The Grove of Ancient Cedars

Papa Bear kayaked my ass across the willapa, to the Island where whe ancient cedars grow, maybe, two summers ago. The air was hot and sweet on the island. There was no road-noise, or drunk squealing ladies, no bass tudding through the floor boards of any P.O.S. automobiles and/or houses.
Things left evidence of their presence- big, beautiful, scary things- like bears clawing the fine bark from the trunks of young cedars and pine, like big cats shedding their fur and leaving it in clumps.
Giant bull elk are so graceful despite their size, as they bend long strong necks to drink from the clean body of water. So much is left in it's right state around the protected cedars.

Lately I've been fighting with myself about the idea of relationships. It seems that in an intimate, romantic relationship, the pretense of social behavior sort of drops out, and the people involved relax and feel more like they can be themselves. At least I do.
In social situations, I just try to be polite. That's what I know how to do.
Reading queues, joining in on that 'giving you a hard time' catty banter- both fly right over my damn head.
I want to live in the special place in someone's heart, where things are untouched like on the island, by social stratus. But, I simply can not. There is no relationship worth climbing into that is not built on friendship, which is a bloody stupid social condition.
It is strange, that a person would have so much more difficulty developing social relationships than developing romantic ones, seeing as how there is always so very much more at stake in the later.

So-and-so is in town visiting, and I requested of him that I be allowed to pick his brain. (what a disgusting expression, by the way.) There is this chaotic flapping of bird wings going on inside of me, he is too good looking and talented, and experienced in some interesting things for me to not wake up in a cold sweat some mornings when I've let my brain wander- or have a fit of shaky-hands when I see him. But I assure myself, this is a social affair. His good-lookin makes things more difficult, but not impossible.
It's like a placement test, can I read the queues, be polite, and involved enough to interact with this tall, square jawed dream-boat?
So far, I have sent him text messages when I probably shouldn't- but I'm not too worried about it, they didn't say anything particularly bizarre or desperate, but that's about it. I'm keeping my mouth shut and expectations-if not low, as minimal as I possibly can. I figure, the dude is cool, I know his mother, we are bound to run into each other or meet again in the fall/winter when I wander toward the Puget Sound area, but if not, there are plenty of fishes for me to school with in that River.

P.S. The 'sort' of folks who come to this beautiful, magical, amazing wonderland of sand and pine- to litter it, to get and stay drunk all week so they can squeal, laugh, yell useless bullshit into the windows of my apartment, to blow up the sky till four in the morning- these people- SCUM OF THE EARTH. and I hope they all die in some horrific traffic accident on their way back to where they came from.
Don't mind the door hitting ya on yer way out!