My Heart Keeps Beating Like a Hammer

You guys, September starts tomorrow. How did this happen? I hope you all got the most out of your summers. Also, send me pictures of your adventures so I can photoshop myself into them and pretend I also got the most out of mine? A brief summary of my summer activities: approximately three days reading in the backyard hammock. That about sums it up. I’m not complaining, I promise. This summer has been about hitting my stride after my first (but not last) interstate move. And you know what? After paying my bills this month I’ll still be able to afford fresh vegetables. Hell, maybe I’ll even splurge on some fruit.

Double thumbs up to produce!  http://www.organiclifestylemagazine.com

This past Monday I didn’t work. I could have gone to the lake with Friend and her little nieces. I could have gone swimming, eaten a big bear sandwich and napped in the sun. Also, for some reason said nieces were convinced I was going to show up and tickle them. Even though I am mildly child-phobic. Instead, I spent Sunday night heaving my guts out, hoping I wouldn’t die. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been sick before. Like the Thanksgiving I got the flu and spent three days alternately puking and watching the Alien trilogy. Or my senior year of high school when campylobacter had me eating jello for two weeks.

But Sunday was awful. Fetal-position-sobbing-between-dry-heaves-and-heart-palpitations awful. For the first time in a long time I wanted my mom, my Rubber Ducky sick pants and maybe a frontal lobotomy. [Note: a huge thank you to everybody who unflinchingly called me out on my hypochondriac tendencies. I’m sure in reality I was nowhere near imminent death.] Consequently, instead of frolicking about the lake on Monday, I dragged myself onto the couch and watched seven episodes of My So-Called Life. 90s bingeing makes me want a pair of overalls in the worst way.

Other than the grunge, my week has been pretty uneventful. Seriously, I’ve spent most of it tracking the progress of this 70 lb. dachshund. Yes, this is my real adult life. 

But! Excitement looms on the horizon. Things I am currently amped about:

·         A-Camp: This week our fearless cabin leaders sent out an e-mail introducing themselves and encouraging us to do the same. Since I’m an over-achiever, I was the first to respond with my bio. It looked like this:

I moved to Portland Oregon in February, but I'm originally from Missoula Montana. I've got my degree in anthropology/linguistics, which obvs means I work as a veterinary receptionist. I'm in the process of figuring out how to write and also still pay my bills. I played rugby for seven years before tearing my ACL. I have a cat named Murphy's Law. I'm currently reading White Oleander by Janet Fitch, but I have to read it in small doses or I feel overwhelmed. I wear my Chacos eight months out of the year. I love coffee, chocolate milk and any sort of potato chip. I get a little dizzy every time I realize how soon A-Camp is. In a good way, though.

Ohmygod I hope they like me. I’ll be spending the week with 12 other lady-loving ladies, all of whom seem legit. 75% of us own cats, so at least we’ll have something to talk about.

·        Lucy will be in this town! Things we will (probably) do: eat at Le Happy, stand in line for Voodoo Donuts, play hide-and-seek in Powell’s, picnic at Mt. Tabor, waddle up and down Hawthorne, eat bahn mi, visit the Bins… and so much more! Seriously stoked over here, you guys.

·        This will be happening. I get a little queasy every time I think about it, but I’m stoked to overcome my stage fright and share my words with the world. By “the world” I mean anyone who wants to come to the Marino Café on September 26^th to hear me stutter into a microphone for 15 minutes. Also. They make delicious paninis. You’re all invited. 

That about sums it up, kittens. 8 hours at the Boulevard still stand between me and Labor Day weekend. So I will bid you fond adieu. Do you all have big plans? Will you eat s’mores and camp and make merry?

All my love, weirdos.

-b

I Will Not Bend, I Will Not Break.

I’m either on the verge of a breakthrough or a breakdown.

That’s what I keep telling myself. Maybe they’re the same thing. Maybe they’re somehow distantly related, third cousins that grew up in different corners of the country. I’m on the verge of a breakthrough or a breakdown. It’s becoming my mantra. The idea I cling to when everything feels so fucked that just breathing feels like an accomplishment. When eating a meal and keeping it in my stomach was the most I could do that day. Because every tired cliché tells us hardship leads to reward: the dark before the dawn, the final push on the homestretch.

Source: http://athleticbusiness.com

A friend recently surprised me with a letter. She reminded me that I can walk, breathe on my own, see all the beauty this world has to offer. She reminded me that I can hula hoop on a rooftop and sing at the top of my lungs. I’ve never mastered the mechanics of hula hooping, but I get the point.

She ended with a quote from Martin Luther King, Jr: 

“We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.”

Whether I want it or not, this world has given me freedom to choose my own path.

My life to-date has been a sequence of fortuitous events, or the culmination of somebody else’s efforts.  I went to college because my high school English teacher threw me in a van, drove me the 30 miles to Missoula and stood over my shoulder while I filled out my admissions paperwork. I studied Anthropology because my friends studied Anthropology. Relationships came easily. They fell into my life one after the other and I followed my passions with no thought for consequences. Fate was a convenient excuse. Fate let me justify my selfish and destructive behavior. When Fate wasn’t around to play scapegoat, I had alcohol to blame for my poor decision making.

Portland has been my first attempt at self-determination, and thus far I’ve bungled it marvelously. I’ve been dragging my feet waiting for the blue heron dream. I’ve been waiting for Fate to giftwrap the future and drop it in my lap, to present me with the perfect opportunity. You guys. Destiny is bullshit. Well, sometimes she’s a girl you meet at C.C. Slaughters, but that’s a different story.

My past, that knotted mess of good luck and bad decisions, is tangled up with regrets. I own the things I’ve done. I realize that I am capable of devastating cruelty. I understand now that no action exists in a vacuum. Every time I have hurt myself it has also hurt the people who love me most. But I refuse to be a one-dimensional character in my own life story. I’ve been an object, a pawn, a lover and a villain. Sometimes all of those things before breakfast. I think things start to get confused when we attempt to be both narrator and protagonist in our own lives. There’s a conflict of interests, things get muddled when we attempt to manipulate our experiences as plot-devices. I know that I have hurt myself just to keep the story interesting. I imagine I’m not the only one.

We’re conditioned to overcome adversity. Finish strong, get back on the horse, roll with the punches. I feel most alive during the struggle, even if I’m only wrestling with myself. To stop fighting or worse yet, have nothing worth fighting for or against, terrifies me.  Happiness has always been my greatest challenge. Nobody warns you how hard it can be when things are easy.

I think what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry. I’m sorry I keep throwing myself into the deep end just to see if I can still swim. I have decided to stop fighting Happiness, because in the end it’s some weird Fight Club mind fuck and I’m only beating the shit out of myself, alone in a dark basement. I’m going to accept that I am something worth saving. But more importantly, maybe there’s nothing to be saved from but myself.  

In the semi-eternal words of Tammy Curry: I’m a winner. Nobody can stop me, but me (and maybe exploding threshers, but that’s beside the point). And don’t forget:

Source: http://imgur.com/gallery/r2zQr

I love you creeps. 

-b 

Don't Let Your Baby Grow Up to be a Poet.

[Note: melatonin supplement was taken before embarking on this journey.]

Must...publish...blog post!

Hello weirdos, it’s been one hell of a whirlwind week. Forgive the early alliteration; it may have been too much. This week has certainly kept me on my toes. I got hit with a strange manic upswing and spent Sunday afternoon Being Productive, which meant laundry, deep-cleaning/rearranging my room and writing things I actually get paid for. What’s that? Making money for writing? That’s just ridiculous! But seriously, one time I had this really great boss and she liked when I was capable of feeding myself, so she hired me to do some freelance writing. I’ve paid my bills more than once with that extra income, and I am eternally grateful.

Meeting that deadline unfortunately meant depriving you creeps of my life’s intimate details two extra days. But here we are, I think this technically counts as a Tuesday post. This means I need to have a grand adventure between now and Thursday’s post. Man you guys, this whole blog thing is a lot of pressure.

Luckily, the highlight of my weekend can be summed up in four words: Portland Poetry Slam Championship. I rolled up to the Backspace Café just before 7 p.m. Sunday night and the line was already forming. I’ve never seen so many skinny jeans and large-framed glasses in one place. My friend and recent Portland-transplant Moose met me there. [Note: Moose is thus named because of her proficiency at the drinking game, not for any resemblance to the majestic and devastatingly violent woodland creature] Once the doors opened we filed in and found seats.

Because Moose possesses greater social skills than I (AKA has social skills at all), she made friends with our seatmate while I jockeyed to the front of the line for a cranberry soda.

Our seatmate turned out to be a woman nicknamed Zigzag, because sometimes she’s zigging and sometimes she’s zagging. No shit. Zigzag is a life coach, professional blogger and everything I want to be when I grow up. Minus bankrupt and a divorcee. Did I mention she was a bit of a talker? She apparently also won a handful

This particular slam followed a different format than the typical Portland slams. Five objective judges were selected from the audience (I wasn’t selected because I have a crush on Brenna Twohy’s poetry, so I was deemed biased). The slam was four rounds, with seven poets in the first half and four poets in the second half. The seven competitors were the highest ranking cumulative point holders from the slam season. There’s a whole long explanation I could get into about how points are scored, but I’m sleepy and guessing you guys don’t really care. All you need to know is that these poets are basically masters of the literary universe. Basically.

You guys. This stuff was amazing. I cried twice just in the first round. I’m in awe of poetry’s ability to make my heart settle somewhere near the base of my esophagus. Words and their power continue to amaze me every day. After the slam I wanted to rush home and write all of the things and never stop writing. Unfortunately, I fell asleep after just one thing that almost resembles a poem. It’s like a larval-stage poem. You guys can meet it when it gets born.

Back to the slam! This fellow, Doc Luben, won the competition which means he will be travelling to Arkansas in October to represent Portland, Oregon at the Individual World Poetry Slam.  Big shout out to Doc, I wish him all the luck.

Really that’s all I’ve got for you tonight. Like I said, I’m in a manic upswing which means I feel great. Unfortunately, I have less to say because I’m busy doing things. Like applying for internships and creating poetry and cleaning things and being a grown-ass woman. 

Do you ever notice how hard it is to tell people when you’re happy? Why are complaints and misery the foundation of so many human interactions? For example, if I wake up and immediately burst into tears (circa last week) I know I can call my mom or text a friend. I know if I tell them how I feel they will reassure me. Sometimes when I am really down they will spoon-feed me pie. On the other hand, if I wake up and feel fucking fantastic (circa Sunday/Monday)… who do you tell about the happy? When someone asks how you are, you can say “good” or “great!” or “I feel like I have a rainbow exploding inside of my chest!!” But then what? I don’t know man. I’ll let you know when I do.

For now, I bid you fond adieu and encourage you to stalk some incredible artists (Brenna Twohy, Joe Brundidge, Doc Lubin, Eirean Bradley) for supplementary reading. School is starting soon, do all the recreational reading you can in the next two weeks.

All my love.

-b

If It Makes You Happy, Then Why the Hell Are You So Sad?

This morning I woke up.

hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

I woke up about an hour before my alarm went off. I opened my eyes, told myself Today you’re going to be happy, ok? Then I started crying. I don’t know what causes days like this. Maybe the way light pours through my open window or waking up in this empty bed, strange planetary alignment or faulty serotonin levels in my brain. Whatever the cause, days like this are a bitch.

I cried twice in the bathroom at work. While crying at work is never really a positive thing, it’s particularly risky on the Boulevard. See, they have a long history of hiring really reliable characters. Like the guy who used to do drugs in the bathroom on his breaks. Returning to the front desk with red eyes and the sniffles could very well get me random drug tested. True story: when I went in for my pre-employment drug screening, the technician monitoring my testing spent approximately forever telling me about the tricks he had taught his pet fish. I’m terrified of fish.

Anyhow, this post is neither a PSA about the dangers of owning violent tropical fish, nor another anthem to my debilitating depression. C asked me to write about ten things that “cause [me] joy”. I’ll admit my initial reaction was abject horror. Trying to find even one joy-inducing anything seemed impossible today. But I told her I would try. So here I am, trying.

Let’s start small, ok?

10. This GIF of tiny baby kittens riding an automated floor-waxer. 

I know it’s not much. But the other day this image made me forget about this ugly world for at least 5 minutes. I’m telling you, kittens make any day better. Even Sunday afternoons when you’re trying your damndest to forget something you won’t ever unknow. I laughed until my stomach cramped, and still couldn’t stop watching it on repeat, over and over and over. These strangely apathetic kittens totes kept me from imploding and have continued to be my go-to all week.

9. Playing with Newfoundland puppies (or any puppy really)

One of the definite benefits of my job is the occasional opportunity to play with puppies. The other day four Newfoundland puppies came in for screenings, and I spent my lunch break rolling around with them on the grubby office floor. What soulless human being could possibly resist those pudgy little bear cubs? Seriously, the promise of puppies keeps me going back day after day. I suppose the ability to pay my bills helps. Just a little bit.

http://www.dailypuppy.com

8. Sitting topless in my sunny backyard on my day off eating cantaloupe.

I realize this is very specific. But seriously guys, these are all necessary conditions for joy. Preferably I’m eating the cantaloupe with the biggest spoon in our silverware drawer. And the melon has to be chilled, fresh out of the refrigerator. Ideally the temperature hits around 75 degrees, and the sun is best early afternoon. It’s crucial that this only happens on my day off, because obvs the sun makes me sweaty and sleepy and I need to nap in the shade shortly after consuming said cantaloupe. This occurs approximately three times a year, and never fails me.

7. Sprinting/running really fast.

Here’s the thing about injury: I’ve felt trapped in my own body every day since November 12^th, 2011. Before I tore my ACL I was running 15 miles a week and felt fucking amazing. Post-op, when I realized I couldn’t even fully extend Lefty Lopez, I started dealing with claustrophobia. The first time I rode a bike again, or even went for a zombie-shuffle jog around the block, I felt like a newly-released inmate riding in a car again. The speed was exhilarating. I’ve always loved sprinting, I love to feel my two legs solid underneath me, love the tunnel vision and when the sound of my own breath and footsteps muffles everything else. I can lose myself in sprints.

Lucy says I can’t always outrun my problems. She’s absolutely right: they’ve caught up with me. My knee still can’t handle the impact of a full-blown sprint, but I dream about running. Sometimes I dream about falling, about my body betraying me again. But I eagerly anticipate the day I’ll finally cut loose without fear and sprint again. 

6. Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

‘Nough said, right? For the record: I own seasons 2 through 7 and I’ve watched them start to finish at least three times. Anya is my favorite character and “Once More with Feeling” is my favorite episode. If you haven’t seen it, you probably should. Right now. Or after you watch a few episodes so you know what’s going on.

I rediscovered Buffy a few winters ago when I was depressed and living in a dark, cramped basement apartment. I bought myself Season 2 as a Christmas present and once I started I couldn’t stop. Buffy will always be KJNS, or the summer we met Gay or long afternoons with Lucy. There’s always a relatable character, and Buffy’s tequila drinking face will always make me laugh. I’ve shaken off some dark days with a roundhouse kick to the chest.

5. Writing, this blog and sometimes other things too.

I joke about this blog being free therapy, but in all seriousness I’m not sure I could make it through a week without you guys. Thank you for allowing/supporting this expressive outlet. I couldn’t do it without you. Well, ok. I could but it would definitely be less satisfying. Have I told you guys C invited me to read poetry with her in September? In front of an audience with real people? Expect to see some of my work surfacing here as the reading gets closer. 

4. When my mom randomly calls or texts me just to say she loves me.

This actually happened today because my mom (and a handful of other moms, I’d wager) has a weird sixth sense about these things. Unfortunately I was at work NOT playing with puppies, so I missed her call. I miss my mom more than I admit to myself. When we were running together every week I felt more centered. We had an opportunity to talk, an opportunity for me to feel like part of the family again. I’m lonely out here, and I miss my family. Even when I didn’t see them I knew they were there, somewhere nearby. Now the telephone has to suffice. 

3. That Cat.

Sometimes just looking at That Cat makes my chest swell with all the feelings and causes me to emit a pathetic, high-pitched squealing sound. Other times I want to punch her in the head. Sometimes she throws up on the floor and it takes five days to muster the energy to clean it. But seriously, how many kittens will pet your arm to wake you up in the morning? Her name is Murphy’s Law because she was the crowning glory of the week everything went wrong. I love her, and can’t imagine my life without her. 

2. Waking up next to [redacted] on Sunday mornings.

Bliss. That is all. 

1. Oh man, the number one joy-inducing thing in my life...

I honestly don't know. Or I do, but there's no way to quite pin it down. It's something that sneaks up on me. I don't know that it's joy so much as contentment. Peace. Unpredictable and wholly lovely. That feeling of well-being that comes from wearing your favorite sweater, or a surprise hug from someone you love, or coming home to your favorite meal. It's ineffable; something simultaneously small and earth-shattering. Someday I'll have a word for it, but I'm not sure that word has been born yet...

So there you have it! The Top 10 Joy-Inducing activities for my life. What do you guys do when the big heavies bring you down? What is your number one happy-inducer? Do you also find it necessary to eat snacks with the largest spoon you can find? I feel like there's some biological reasoning behind that...

Now that is is nearly 1am I must tuck myself in for a few hours of sleep. You know, so I can start this whole thing over again tomorrow. I love you all, and hope you have big plans for the weekend!

-b

P.S.  I've got a hot date on Saturday... maybe I'll tell you all about it if it goes well. 

Ring Around Rosey Game Always Ends the Same Way, We All Fall Down

Hello you lovable bunch of weirdos. Are you still out there? I would very much appreciate if you’re still out there. I feel like a lecturer in a dark room, with a spotlight on my face. I can hear the occasional rustle and assume I've got an audience. I think I’d be heartbroken if the lights came up and I was talking to an empty room. Maybe heartbroken is too strong a word. There are lots of things worth breaking a heart over. Maybe catharsis isn’t one of them. I don’t know, I’m not ok today.

Recently I was overwhelmed by that desperate sort of loneliness that makes you want to hug everybody you care about just to remind yourself they’re still real. Trying to maintain friendships from far away hurts. It’s hard. I feel smaller every day, like I’m fading; like I’m being forgotten by the people who still mean everything to me.

When I was much smaller than I am now, the first movie I saw was Peter Pan. I’m sure I’ve fabricated this memory from what my mom told me, but I vividly remember sitting in a bright red, child-sized chair in the middle of the living room watching that movie on repeat at least a dozen times. The Lost Boys were my favorites, those lovable troublemakers. No matter what mischief they got into, they had each other. They were a tribe of lonely miscreants. I wanted to spend my whole life mobbing around Neverland, wearing pajamas and singing rousing musical numbers with my friends.

Today I feel more like the Wendy bird, shot out of the sky.

You guys, I have a near fatal case of the Some Days. The Some Days are related to the big heavies, but with a dose of optimism. That optimism makes them much more dangerous than the big heavies. While the big heavies leave me floundering in a pit of despair, at least I can recognize their absurdity. Obvs life isn’t as terrible as it seems at that moment. The big heavies are short-lived bouts of extreme depression. I always recover, whether I think I will or not. On the other hand, the Some Days sneak up on you. They eat my leftovers, use my toothbrush and sleep in my bed. They simultaneously get me through the monotony of day-to-day life and make me resent it. Because Some Day I’ll be happy, or Some Day I’ll have money. Some Day I won’t have to cry. Some Day we’ll live in California with our hearts and dreams intact.

It’s hard not to believe in Some Day because there will always be a tomorrow. And a day after that and a day after that.

Today I’m anxious. The Some Day I’ve committed myself to is wounded. I'm wounded. Today means uncontrollable crying jags, running fast and far to alleviate some of the tension in my throat. Means eating despite the knots in my stomach, because no matter how sad I am today I need my protein and iron levels plasma-capable tomorrow. Today means admitting I don’t have the answers and maybe I never did and maybe I never will. Means admitting I love myself anyways.

Here are the things I know:

            Trust is a delicate thing.

            Betrayal hurts, even from far far away.

            Alcohol is a destructive bitch.

            Love hurts, especially from far far away.

I don’t know, guys. I’d like there to be a positive message here. But I’m tired and I ache and I just don’t know that I have it in me tonight. You’re all still there, right? Please be there. Please don’t forget me. I need you.

You’re lovely, little dreamers.

-b

From that Job that Makes You Sleep, to the Thoughts that Keep You Awake.

Hello fellow dreamers, poets and weirdos. Sorry for the belated post. I’ve been having the strangest week. Olympics and friends and thong-clad gladiators and a day that everything died… yes. Strange is the best word. But! You guys! Exactly one month from now my Time Off for A-Camp begins! I don’t think I’m ready. In fact, I know I’m not ready. Lucy and I have had several conversations about A-Camp. Most end in a weekend at Disneyland instead of actually attending. I know (AKA hope with all my heart) that A-Camp will be worth the time, effort and money. I just don’t want it to be like when I was a kid growing up in Montana but travelling to California for “Cowboy Camp”.

Californians are naturally curious creatures. 

Mostly I want Riese and Marni to adopt me.

If you don’t know Riese: she created this! Also when she was younger and angstier and living in New York she wrote this and when I found it and read it everything felt good the way coming home is supposed to feel good but never quite does. That blog kept me alive through most of last winter. I foster deep hero worship for Riese.

I get to meet Riese at A-Camp! She may even touch my face. What this means for me: all the excited feelings and all the anxious feelings. I have one month to research interesting conversation topics, figure out how I’m getting back home from L.A., and pack my things. Maybe I just won’t come back home from L.A… maybe that’s the answer.

This week is best summarized by the profound and eternal words of Kanye West:

I’ve been working this graveshift and I ain’t made shit.

I wish I could buy me a spaceship and fly.

While my bank account isn’t complaining, an entire month of overtime has started to take its toll. I know, my job doesn’t strike anyone (myself included) as particularly difficult. No joke, I spent at least 20 minutes today researching parasitic fungi that manipulate their insect hosts’ bodies through mind control before killing them. Creepy or awesome? I’m undecided. Remember Honey I Shrunk the Kids? They rode that ant and I would have almost loved him except mandibles are creepy. Anyways, obvs certain aspects of my job are easy enough.

But things can also be really difficult. Receptionists are the lowest on the veterinary totem pole. We’re expected to be on our game 110% of the time. Co-workers are either cranky or condescending and clients either pity us or walk all over us. Sometimes they pity us because they’ve just finished walking all over us. Nobody seems to mind interrupting us because their work is more important and their time is more valuable than ours. Is it though? Is it really? At the end of my long days I’m lucky if I can muster the social skills to grunt at my roommates before locking myself upstairs to decompress. Like I said, a month of overtime has started to take its toll.  

To be fair, I do enjoy my job. Even when I want to drive paper clips through my eyelids or staple my own lips together. My co-workers are lovably quirky and there’s never a dull moment. Here’s the thing: people who join the vet field want to work with animals because they aren’t good with other people. Turns out, you still have to communicate with other people. Just imagine a whole building of highly intelligent, socially anxious introverts and you’re looking at a day in my life. In the end we’re all just trying to keep living things alive. Ourselves as much as the animals. Thank god for bi-weekly yoga.

I could stay in child's pose my whole life

Coincidentally, I missed yoga both days this week. I’m not complaining, because C was in town! Briefly. She drove back from Smalltown, Montana (where she’s been singing, dancing and acting all summer) for a StoneSoup poetry reading. Monday we cavorted about Laurelhurst Park, eating bahn mi, discovering alien life forms, sitting in the shade and consulting the tarot. We talked about all of the heavy things until breathing seemed a little easier. I needed that, because shit has been pretty heavy lately. Some days feel like a game of Russian Roulette except all the chambers are loaded. It’s nice to have a friend warning you to not pull the trigger.

And of course the poetry was phenomenal.

On an unrelated note, I’ve been sleeping really poorly the last couple weeks. I’ve been drifting in and out of that strange, liminal almost-sleep that never feels restful. When I do manage to actually sleep, I’ve been dreaming actively and vividly. I blame a handful of culprits. One, eating spicy (or any) food right before bed. Two, my body finally realizing I’ve actually given up alcoholic nightcaps for the long haul. Body is thus displeased. Three, lately my neighbors have been big on late night drum circles, freestyle rapping and slam poetry. I think Snoop Lion must have moved in. Anyhow, tonight I’ma try a melatonin supplement to help me crash. Wish me luck? Maybe I'll try to write some sleepy garbled nonsense for you creeps. I hope it has something to do with your face being a beautiful shade of kittens.

I love you all, and hope to be more coherent on Sunday!

-b

...We're Not in Kansas Anymore.

Hello weirdos. It’s official. The heat wave hit Portland Saturday morning and may never let up.

Friday morning my co-worker asked how I planned to combat the heat. I thought she was being a little ridiculous. I’ve always enjoyed summer sun and high temperatures. But Portland heat feels different, heavier. I would call it debilitating if I wanted to sound dramatic. I’ve spent the last two days either lounging in the backyard hammock or sprawling on my bedroom floor in front of a giant fan. Luckily, the heat justifies my disdain for clothing. I haven’t worn a shirt since getting off work Friday.

Coincidentally, partial nudity is the perfect segue into the stories I’ve been promising to tell you for an entire week now! I recently attended my very first Night of Kink. From what I’ve gathered N.O.K. is a “night of exploration and free expression” happening every other month with a different theme. July’s theme: Unicorns Gone Wild. Obvs I couldn’t sit this one out. 

I won’t lie, Saturday afternoon I was nervous. For maybe the second time in my adult life I wished I owned a pair of thigh-high leather boots so I could at least LOOK confident. I consulted C on what to expect. Her [paraphrased] response: I’m not entirely sure, but definitely some really kinky sexual stuff. I would need to be really drunk if I were going. Lovely. This obvs sounded like a legitimate setting for me and Friend to shed our social anxieties. Side note, I maybe forgot to give Friend all the details of what the night might entail. For example: aerialists, fire-dancers, private “exploration” rooms and a fully-equipped torture/pleasure (depending on your viewpoint) arena.

Friend and TR rallied at my place to pre-game. Nothing says “we’re here to party” like cheap beer and women’s beach volleyball. Once they seemed buzzed enough to keep me entertained, we piled into the Biscuit and headed to the Bossanova Ballroom. We got there just behind a cadre of unicorn ladies. They looked us over and promptly encouraged Friend to hike up her skirt. We followed as they clomped up the stairs, huddled together for security.

Leather and whips and chains, oh my!

I’m not sure what I expected… ok, that’s only half true. I expected a full-blown animal orgy on the dance floor. What we walked into was strangely normal. Yeah, there were two men on stilts and a handful of women dressed as kinky unicorns gyrating on the dance floor. And sure, one of the unicorns had a dildo on his forehead in lieu of a horn. But when we arrived the scene was still relatively mild. I found my friend Joe, looking rather dapper, and he gave us the tour. The “torture chamber” was assembled along one wall. A half-naked woman, strapped to a massage table, was submitting to tickle torture. Medieval-influenced punishment devices (ex. the stocks) hunkered in the far corner. A leather-clad fella busily assembled an imposing structure. I can only assume it was for restraining his victims.

Nothing too far out of the ordinary! Joe disappeared back into the crowd on security duty, leaving us to our own devices. Drinks in hand, we found a good vantage point to keep an eye on late arrivals. I tallied tails (only the woodland variety, or course, since obvs the unicorns had tails). We watched at a man wearing a leather chaps chase his flighty pony partner around with a bullwhip. You guys, it was kind of graceful. Like a choreographed dance, but with hooves. A dominatrix strolled lazily around, dragging a leather strap over her gloved palm. Another girl darted around the dance floor wearing only bodypaint and a thong.

I was surprised by how structured everything was. Once the performances started, we spent the majority of our time crowded around the stage trying to get a clear view of interpretive dances, aerialist displays, fire jugglers and contortionists. The highlight event was the Unicorn Derby. Riders mounted their unicorns and were carted through a series of challenges including a ring-toss and a marshmallow eating competition.

Me: So this is what my parents worried about when I said I was moving to the city...

Friend: Kinky unicorn dance parties? Sounds about right.

At intermission Friend and TR decided they had seen enough kink for one night. We bid adieu to the fur-clad kinksters and continued on into the night.  

All in all, I count Night of Kink as a success. I saw new things and studied a new lifestyle. That’s right, bitches. I put my Anthropology undergrad to good use. So unicorn role-play isn’t my kink… It might have been! Now I know. I’m not sure whether or not I’ll go to another N.O.K. But I know that if I do I won’t be scared. I don’t mean to be redundant, but again: we’re all just people. Some people like leather and whips and animal ears... It's all cool, man. It's all good. 

All my love, you kinky freaks.


-b

Swing, Swing from the Tangles of my Heart

Hello blogosphere and happy Thursday! I hope these words find you all surviving your work weeks. Unless you are unemployed. Then I hope these words find you in your underwear eating a gallon of ice cream with the biggest spoon in your arsenal. That’s what I would like to spend the rest of my life doing. I’ve logged a solid 35 hours this week and have 9 to go. One more day of flying monkeys, hysterical Greek women and Top 40s dance parties. You think I’m exaggerating. You guys, this is my real adult life.

This week. My god this week. Hopefully at least some of you were here Monday when I had all the feelings. While said feelings haven’t quite dissipated, I have managed to sequester them into the dark and dusty back of my mind. They’re crowded back there with the impending zombie apocalypse, my accrued net value (approximately -$35,000) and the army of spiders planning a coup from under my bed. Seriously though, auto pilot possesses its own strange allure. Wake up, work, gym, eat, sleep, wake up, work, gym, eat, sleep… it’s either depressing or liberating. I haven’t decided which yet.

All the sad people are burning their lives down.

For once I’m not one of them. I’ve re-lived the same pattern a handful of times. I’ve struggled and overcome and just when I feel some false sense of security I throw a right hook into my own chin. Just to watch myself fall. I keep setting myself on fire just to prove I can rise from the ashes, or some such cliché bullshit. It’s exhausting and I’m tired of my laughter always smelling like smoke. I don’t want to be a martyr to my own self-destructive impulses anymore.

But then again, you’ve all heard that before.

I’m tired of pretending to be tired. Have you noticed that’s the default excuse when you don’t feel like interacting with someone? Yawn and stretch and claim you slept poorly, or you went to bed late? I’m tired of pretending to be tired when in reality I just don’t have a fuck to give. Why do we have to make excuses for ourselves?     

I remember summer camp and 11-years old, crooked teeth, a big belly and thick glasses. The campground was a ring of cabins loosely crowded around a lake. Our swimming abilities were analyzed by teenage lifeguards, practically godlike in their nearly-adult bodies. The strongest swimmers could climb a rickety wooden ladder, stand on the sun-bleached platform and take a frayed rope in both hands. The bravest kids took a running leap while the tamer jumpers just let gravity carry them out over the water. At the top of the arc you let go, let your body plummet what seemed like a hundred feet until you hit the water, safely past the dock. The rope swing was a surefire way to prove you were strong and confident and unquestionably cool.

I remember standing on that platform absolutely terrified the first time I jumped. First of all, a crowd always gathered to watch the jumpers and grade their performance. Second, the platform was high enough to make me dizzy. But I was fucking determined to be unquestionably awesome despite my crooked teeth and extra poundage and myopic vision. So I did it, I grabbed the worn knots of that rope and let gravity cradle my body. At the top of the arc when my stomach dropped before the rest of me, I felt absolutely free. There’s just something about falling from a high place; the sound of atmosphere flying past your ears, adrenaline pounding achingly through your body… For those seconds before impact there’s comfort in knowing you can’t alter the sequence of events you’ve begun. After the first jump I was unstoppable.

 http://www.thenervousbreakdown.com/amaksik/2008/06/like-breath/ 

Until the time I couldn’t let go.  

I’d been jumping all week. I was an old pro. I didn’t hesitate when I grabbed the rope and dropped into space. But when I reached the top of the arc my white-knuckled grip refused to unclench. I felt the rope tighten and begin to swing me back toward the platform. Everything slowed down. I could hear people yelling. Just let go. Just let go! And I did, entirely too late. I landed in shallow water too close to the dock and raked a piece of submerged driftwood. I didn’t need stitches, but I came damn close. The butterfly bandages on my leg kept me out of the water the rest of the week.   

Today Lo told me to hold on tight, and I have been. I’ve been holding on with white knuckles while I careen wildly through space. But at some point we all have to let go. At some point we have to trust gravity and forward momentum and simple, dumb luck and trust we’ll land safely. Otherwise we end up back where we started, and the landing can be fucking painful.

I’m learning to let go. Or trying to anyways.

Things I still need to tell you guys about: Night of Kink, the unicorn derby, fire dancing strippers, and the King of Tails! I promise I won’t let those experiences fall by the wayside. For now, this is what you get.

This puppy says: Catch you on the flipside.

Many miles of love, from me to you.

-b