Perfect audience

This weekend the work piled up due to my motivational crash. Once my spring fever hits, there is no going back. so, when the weather decides to be more wintery and less summery my body wants to sleep.

The work I should have had done on Sunday and Monday, was put off until last night. An old friend sent an irresistible text that simply said bluegrass? I replied grading and within milliseconds I realized that i would be walking in graduation in 2 weeks, leaving for the summer, presenting my thesis in the fall, and would be leaving eugene. I would maybe only have 2 or 3 more bluegrass nights here, and what the hell. life is too short to stay at home on bluegrass night grading papers when there is a good 12 hours between when the papers HAVE TO BE graded and RIGHT NOW. I called her back immediately. Work was again paused until the early A.M.

My alarm at 4:00 a.m. didn't wake me, because I was already awake from a mostly sleepless night due to all the work I had to accomplish before 8:00 am. I pulled my foggy eyes out of bed and started grading. No coffee, the coffee beans are whole, and there are guests in the house. no grinding at 4am. No coffee shops open at 4am.

By 6:30 I finished grading, and with delirium and relaxation, I crawled back into bed with jerry-dog who was still curled up on the bed. I curled my body around his warm fuzzy doughnut shape, pulled out a book of poetry and read out loud to him, whispering so as not to wake the others. He was the perfect audience. He didn't ask why I chose the poems I did. He didn't cringe when I stumbled over prose, or mispronounced a word. He seemed to know why and what I was reading to him. He lifted his head and looked at me appreciatively, curled in tighter and rested his head on the hand not holding the book open.

It was the most wonderful morning I've had in at least a few weeks.



Visits
August Kleinzahler

You were speaking of your brother that night,
Outside on the landing, the two of us
Sharing one last smoke.
I was headed east
For February and you were hoping to finish your work up here
And make it back to Recife in time for Carnival.

It was very late. The street was quiet and dark.
You talked about him always driving back from town drunk
the fifty or so kilometers along country roads to the sugarcane farm he ran.
What a wonderful driver
He was, sure and alert, even when drinking,
And how well he knew those roads, but still,
One night...

You were beautiful just then,
Your face naked, luminous with feeling
For him and the sorrow you sensed in his life,
An adorning trance--
When I looked up,
And right on top of us the radio tower,
Soaring a thousand feet, its red beacon
Pulsing across the sky.

I nearly swooned for all the wine and smoke and feijoada,
You and Louisa vamping all night to the Cardosa records,
Then my head thrown back
To the monstrous surprise of it,
Suddenly looming.
I didn't know this neighborhood at night,
Or had never bothered to look up.

But that's really it, after all:
Like Monsieur Krivine from Lyons, the symphony conductor,
When we walked across town years ago
And admired the skyline from Russian Hill.
--Magnificent,

he gasped.
--You enjoy tall buildings? I asked.
--No, no, he said,

the shapes they make of the sky.

handsome again

in my mad search for new words I've had conversations, passed emails, read great poems and thought to myself that perhaps I should just condition myself to like the word handsome, much as others have conditioned themselves to feel comfortable with the word vagina.

so, a poem for the road, or the sky, that I ran across yestereve as I was flipping through pages with a glass of wine, reading out loud to Emilee, Julie and Shannon in the yard.

Flight
Louis Jenkins

Past mishaps might be attributed to an incomplete understanding of the laws of aerodynamics or perhaps even to a more basic failure of the imagination, but were to be expected. Remember, this is solo flight unencumbered by bicycle parts, aluminum and nylon or even feathers. A tour de force, really. There's a lot of running and flapping involved and as you get older and heavier, a lot more huffing and puffing. But on a bright day like today with a strong headwind blowing up from the sea, when, having slipped the surly bonds of common sense and knowing she is watching, waiting in breathless anticipation, you send yourself hurtling down the long, green slope to the cliffs, who knows? You might just make it.

searching for words

I realized the other day that I strongly dislike the word handsome. not because of what it should mean, but because of how it sounds and because of the connotations that come with it.

In the same way that I like the sound of the words paste and green and Matkatamiba I dislike the word handsome.

handsome also seems to come with a heavy weight of stuffy ick that just doesn't suit me. beautiful, sexy, gorgeous, these are words I would use, but how to describe a very attractive person with a decidedly masculine quality? without the stuffy factor?

I have been searching the web, dictionaries, the thesaurus and books of poetry recommended by Conor to expand my deficient vocabulary. But I'm thinking that I know quite a few people that could help me out with this one.

anyone have some good suggestions?

the not-so-unknown-coast

Publish Post

It was a hard morning to wake up. I'm pretty sure I didn't wake up until mile 20 or so...


we were off to an early 7 am start. I hung towards the back to avoid being run over by the cycle sport guys trying to break the 5 hours and 13 minute time for the 100 mile ride.

I bet you can't guess which one is me...

the ride? best ride ever. and the purple tutu? let's just say that if you ever need encouragement, and you feel you are on your own... wear a purple tutu, you might just have a hundred new friends who realize you are just as crazy as they are. "interesting choice of gear", "diggin the socks", "smashing darling, smashing", "it's the purple tutu girl!", and my personal favorite: "i'm gonna wear a purple tutu next year, it seems to help on the hills"

At mile 30 my headache got worse and I started to wonder what direction I was going. by mile 40 I was happy again, beginning the 10 mile climb up Panther gap. I met many many new people who had ridden the tour 6, 13, 22 times. they all had advice for me, all offering tidbits about the route, warnings about the downhills and the potholes, strategy, cycling in general, life.

it is a rhythm worth repeating every year. an hour or two with a couple people, a break for some water or snacks, leap frogging within a pack of about 50 riders. another hour or two with new riders, some solo time to contemplate the fields of lupine or the 40 mph downhills dodging potholes, or psyching yourself up for the 18% grade uphill at mile 80 known as 'the wall'. a pack of us strangers took turns cutting through the headwind for the 7 miles of our only flat terrain along the coast line at mile 73. I was almost blown off my bike sideways and backwards, though I couldn't help but notice how blue the water was, how green the grass was, and how amazing it was to be on my bike working together with complete strangers to battle the wind for a 7 mile stretch of road.

a cute boy, the cutest boy, found me near the top of the Endless Hill at mile 90, and told me that I was almost there, that there were more than 150 people behind me at least, and the hill was almost over.

My fingers froze with a bit of rain at the top of the Endless Hill and I could barely shift. I worried about my ability to feel or grasp my breaks on the downhill. they warmed up and I was back to dodging potholes, thinking to myself: 'it is all downhill from here!' with what i'm sure was a ridiculous grin on my face. I rode to the finish line where my mom, sister, nephew, dad, and cute boy were waiting.

that boy? that very same one came to the crazy century bike ride and drove the route backwards to scribe the words 'go melissa' in chalk on the Endless Hill, miles 80-100 so I would see them when I got there. that boy came to the ride even though it meant he had to meet my crazy family. that very same boy held me as i fell asleep that night even though he wasn't tired. and took me to the coast and rivers where he'd been the day before even though he'd already seen them.

the city

another weekend in the city searching for ruins. another fabulous weekend wandering the mission district with maps from the city planning department. peeling paint and neon signs, spanish conversations and fenced off lots. It was the kind of adventure that reveals the secrets of the city no one tells you. the abandoned theaters on mission street, the boarded windows of the still-open thrift store on 11th.

The crowds flocked towards the Weird Festival in fishnets and go goes, feathers and faux fur. The commissioned graffiti artists worked on an old metal galvanizing warehouse on harrison and 6th with their ladders, radio and corona. I wandered by an abandoned car wash turned parking space on a busy commercial intersection of the production, distribution and repair district South of Market, and admired the patina of the most interesting part of the city i've found thus far.

Though the trip was primarily for work, the other motivation for my plan, 'thinly veiled as my masters project' is the man whose arms i fell asleep in last night.

one week to go...

one week to go, and a quick glance at the last few blogs reveals that I might have an obsession: bikes. I didn't think my condition was this bad, but it might be. my good friend joe revealed to me the other day over breakfast that he wanted me to help him with his bike. not because there is something wrong with it that he can't figure out, but because it would make me "feel good" to help him with the thing needing fixing. I believe his exact words were " because i know you love all things bike right now".

in exactly one week i will be driving to ferndale california and setting up my tent in the fairgrounds. in one week +1 day I get to ride 'california's toughest century': 100 miles of craziness. hopefully in an equally crazy outfit to highlight the lunacy the whole idea. *WHAT WAS I THINKING?* Hopefully no one will mistake me for a true cyclist decked out in appropriate cycling attire: obnoxiously bright cycling jersey, spandex diapers, bright funny shoes, expensive glasses. Instead, I'll likely be wearing a frilly purple skirt, funky socks, a plain shirt and cheap sunglasses. I'm sure that my time will be so slow, no one will notice how much the extra material on the purple skirt slows me down.

The original plan was to go with a big group of people and dress up in funky shirts. The plan failed. I think i'm the only one riding the century, and certainly the only one dressing up. But it makes me happy to know that my dad will be riding the metric century with one of his buddies, (and possibly Jules!!). so, though i'll be finishing a few hours and a few thousand vertical feet more trashed than them, at least there will be friends to carry me to my tent when i fall over.

singing terribly loud, terribly

there is only one thing more satisfying than singing out of tune with the windows rolled down as you roll out the miles yonder on a sunny day. that one thing: rolling through the fields on a bike, singing so loudly and terribly the cows give you strange looks as you pass.

I've always wanted to visit the historic city of brownsville, and i've always wanted to do it in style. so i rode my bike there, and we sang out of tune on the way. by we, i mean my bike and I, and the cows, horses, sheep, donkeys and birds we passed.

miles and miles of green fields and pastures. crumbling barns and farm houses. fields of camas and babbling brooks, forested hills and tractors. The clouds were the perfect kind of summery blue gray. The sky was a perfect combination of spring sun and summer clouds.

It was the kind of day that makes you happy to be alive, alone, on a bike. I dodged the dotted white lines and danced to my own terrible singing. I thought about boys and bikes and graduating. I thought about best friends and riding across iowa and dance parties with my dog. I thought about Portland and good food. I thought about california and colorado and cookies. Because honestly, what isn't to like about all these things?