Smiling through the Dog Days
I always cherish these last hot, tired days of summer. These are the days when the summer is getting old, when boredom begins to sink in at the same time as a sort of desperate abandon to use every last second of free time having fun.

The last few days have been one spastic orgy of random glee. After a rather uninspiring start, I'd say the week has finished a success. To begin with, Justin and I have resigned our lease. That means we'll be stuck here in this hellhole (yeah, right) for another seven months. After that, I'm threatening to go abroad. Thursday night, Justin spent a good chunk of time playing WarCraft III team-style with the micro people while I stayed home engaging in what Sarah calls "secret single behavior"; i.e. dancing to angry femme rock in my underwear, cleaning the bathtub, watching porn... heh heh. Sometimes I do so enjoy it when the boy leaves. ;)

I've been especially enojoying mornings this week, not attending my department unless I'm called. And after the last two weeks off, I've learned that I'm seldom called. When I did come in to Micro friday, I had a treat for my coworkers. The day before at Albertsons, standing at the checkstand, I noticed a roll of conveniently placed smiley face stickers. I asked the cashier, "What are those stickers for?" and he said "for anyone who needs a smile. Do you need a smile?" and I said, "Yes!!" "How many?" he replied. "LOTS," I said, eyes aglow. You should have seen my face when he reeled out like thirty-five of them and gave them all to me. Oh the havoc I could wreak! I wore them out of the store as a boa. I gave them to everyone at work, and some to Alex to give to his people. They ended up stuck everywhere! On computers, desks, and my locker... aside from the 10 or so people I gave them to at work. Mayhem!! Smiles for a long weekend....

After work, Rachel and I hit the gym to do some major lifting. It feels good to have a workout partner again and someone I can talk to about working out without feeling like I'm self-conscious or obsessing. When I got home, eight of us from work met up and raided Costco for the better part of an hour- after a rather conspicuous trip to the liquor store. I'm surprised the Costco people didn't kick us out, but they probably have hoardes of college students come in all the time and do stupid things like wearing bathrobes around the store and racing office furniture up and down the aisles. Um.

By the time we left, the store was closing and the sum total of blood sugar in the group was about zero. So after some deliberation (no one wanted to make a decision because we were so hungry), we headed to a new mexican restaurant over by VRC. It's a shame I can't remember what it was called, because it pretty much kicked major ass. (Micah tells me it's called Los Dos Amigos, for those of you in the area who can check it out.) The first thing I noticed when the eight of us went in (and close to their closing time) was that we were greeted by all-mexican/ spanish hosts. A personal pet-peeve of mine (stupid, 'cause I know that one person can cook as good as any other) is when none of the staff of an ethnic restaurant is THAT particular ethnicity. Well, all of these guys were way mexican. Or good pretenders. And they schmoozed with us for ten minutes while they readied a table. AND there was a live guitar player. ANNNNNND they made EXCELLENT margaritas...yummmm.....

In any case, I digress. It was a blast. The food was great and the conversation was... lewd... but also great. I have to say, guys, I'm majorly impressed that such a mixed company could have a successful and constructive conversation about contraceptives over dinner without anyone bowing out from discomfort. *applause* That, and it was refreshing to ask for an honest opinion of whether or not I should stop taking Ortho Cyclen. It's good to be a member of an open generation.

I had to find out if the guitar player new the Pulp Fiction theme song (much to Justin's embarrassment) and one of the waiters brought him over to our table. Unfortunately, he didn't know THAT piece, but he decided to play for us anyway (even though he'd finished for the evening). Rachel insisted that the girls get up and dance, so she and I (and sarah for a bit!) made fools of ourselves in a mexican restaurant. The men all insisted upon staying seated. BUT, during the second song, all the couples managed to do some sort of weak impersonation of Samba. The guitar player was a rather flirtatious Tiajuanan (sp?) guy who decided to teach me a few dance steps and probably thought I was a cute dumb, blonde. Which I was, for the moment being. God, sometimes I am SO ashamed.

I was so impressed by the restaurant staff that I ran out to the car and got more smileys and adorned everyone, including the kitchen staff, bartender and guitarist, with their own stickers. I think the whole restaurant saw us off. I can't believe I gave my phone number to the guitarist. What the hell was I thinking? (well, I couldn't say no...)

After some dallying and a quick stop at a party, we all found our way back to me and Justin's place and Ryan/Tara made FABULOUS margaritas. Justin bought shooter tequila so a few more adventurous (Drunkard) folks did shots the traditional way with limes that were given to us by the mexican bartender. By the time we got around to watching the movie for the evening, Cannibal! The Musical (a Trey Parker/ Matt Stone flick, I highly recommend it), I was comfortably buzzed.

It's a GREAT feeling to be able to sit at home and veg all weekend; to be able to stay up late and get up later... This is the FIRST weekend in a few months where Justin and I have had our own agenda together. It feels wonderful. Today we went to the Saturday market and spent almost an hour perusing the Farmer's market and the gigantic store of fresh fruits and vegetables available this time of year. Nearly every booth had samples. We bought a mouth-wateringly delicious peach and drooled it all over ourselves, our hands, and the ground, moaning orgasmically as we shared it and meandered through the booths. We went home with nine ears of corn for $2 and four more peaches which we just ate over vanilla ice cream.

I grinned the whole time we were there. I'm in love with August and September, enraptured with the harvest and everything that's encompassed by this time of year. I want to hold the fruits of plenty in my arms and bless every one. I want to feast on raw fruits and vegetables, fresh meats and cheeses and make only the best foods with my own hands. Before I napped today, I sleepily told Justin, "I want to be a farmer. I want to wear overalls and bleach my hair in the sun and get my hands all dirty and freckle my brown skin. I want it to be perpetually autumn and everything is always blooming and growing and harvesting." I want that wholesome life. I want to be in touch with the earth in a way that I can't be while I'm sustaining myself like I am. Being at the market today made me Euphoric. I worship the harvest cycle... it speaks to something inside me that comes with being born in mid-october. This is my time.

I wish I had a stomach as big as my eyes. I would have come home with bushels of organic goodies and sat all day on the porch shelling peas and eating canteloupe and getting all sticky with juices and having corn stuck in my teeth. We ate half of the corn for dinner with barbecued chicken and fresh broccoli. I'm drooling now.

These are the days... and soon it will be fall and you will hear me croon in bliss as I do every year before falling into the dark of winter. That's why it's dangerous to love fall, because what comes after it (Especially here) is so devastating. I guess I identify with Demeter... and sunlight is my Persephone. I know I'll enjoy these next few weeks as much as possible, make them as full and fruitful as I can.

The plan for the rest of the weekend is to finish stripping Frederick (my computer) of data and nuke-and-pave him. This will be Frederick the 3rd, upgraded to XP. He's been misbehaving, though. He seems to be having problems posting and I'm guessing they're BIOS related. Granted, he hasn't had an update since early 2000, so it's about time. It just makes me SO NERVOUS to do that to him. Oh well, everything I need to save is burned to CD. And if worst comes to worst.... well, it won't. Anyway, he seems to be working fine now. Enough for me to blog my bliss and away to laziness!

I'm off to a warm couch, a luv and a kitty... WHO IS SO NOT FAT!!!! (I had him weighed today to figure out what flea control I needed to buy, and he's put on about .6 pounds since last year. He used to be 7.5 pounds and now he's 8.1... so he really hasn't grown that much, just gotten fluffy : ) He's a happy kitty, he got to go in the car today and get his nails trimmed and brushed and new flea meds and got some new treats and Toys (which are Duck colored...) So... blar... I'm rambling so off I go to watch movies and enjoy my perfectly pointless but pristine existence. Huzzah!!

G33k|\|33ss
So I'm at work today and this guy comes in EXUDING annoyance. I'm working on Hot Surfer Guy's iBook, helping him with Eudora and not only does he have a clue but he's actually listening to my advice so I ignore this second fellow. There's no one else on desk so after about a minute or two, despite the fact that he can see we're working on something, this other guy starts getting agitated and hollers that he needs someone to help him change his darkwing password. Someone at the hardware desk tells him that "she'll be with you in a moment" and then also begins ignoring him. Another minute goes by. Nimrod decides that instead of changing his darkwing password, which he has forgotten, he will call his co-worker and get it from him, over the phone, because he has it listed somewhere on his computer. How secure. The accounts clerk is wincing behind her door. His rater loud conversation goes on for a minute or so. He gets his password, is satisfied, and hangs up. I pray he'll leave because by now I know he's one of those that gives geeks a bad name. They CALL him a Geek when they mean "Luser." He has no social skills but somehow is completely un-subtle. Like sandpaper to the soul.

Luser sees me at the laptop, strolls over, pointedly takes HIS laptop out of his bag and sits it down a few feet away to get the attention of someone who can help him. I say nothing. He says, impatiently, to surfer iBook dude, "um... I have a question, if you have a minute after you're done helping her..." (looking at me). I look up, split-second deadpan stare of death. "I'm helping him."

He wants to dial up his laptop using his cell phone. He asks me if I can get someone who knows something about computers. I say, "I do." Unfortunately, few of us are as hardcore as to be using our cells as dial-up, so I get Dan, the guru of wireless in all respects. Enter Dan. Luser says "oh, are you the computer expert?" Dan gets the vibe. "One of them," he says. "He's the phone expert," I say. Dan takes one look at the guy's phone and says, "oh, is that a (blah blah blah)? You must be using Verizon." Luser is WAY impressed. Dan knows phones. Dan helps Luser. Luser later apologizes for his mistake in judgement. I talk to Luser for a second. Mistake. Luser does not leave. He came in around 4:15, it is now 4:50, I am doing things. I start to ignore Luser again. He leaves.

He comes back. "Bet you thought you got rid of me!" he says, I swear, with a snort. "YES!!!" screams my mind. "Ha, Ha," I say. Luser asks some random question about his majorly Hosed Pocket PC and, playing BOFH, I am glad to reply, "I'm sorry, we don't support that." Luser leaves. Robert locks the door. We close. Less than two minutes later, Luser comes back and tugs at the now-locked doors. I don't look up.

UGH.

I guess I'm not geek enough to handle them. I took the Poly-geek test (See results below) and it seems remarkably accurate. I am a go-between. I don't program, I don't game, but I understand the urge. I'm usually a little bit behind the cutting-edge, but I learn fast and I love it. I don't sp34k l33t, but I r34d it.

Look! I got a hot picture of Kirstein Dunst for taking the quiz! MmmMmMmmmm.

You are 30% geek

You are a geek liaison, which means you go both ways. You can hang out with normal people or you can hang out with geeks which means you often have geeks as friends and/or have a job where you have to mediate between geeks and normal people. This is an important role and one of which you should be proud. In fact, you can make a good deal of money as a translator. Normal: Tell our geek we need him to work this weekend. You [to Geek]: We need more than that, Scotty. You'll have to stay until you can squeeze more outta them engines! Geek [to You]: I'm givin' her all she's got, Captain, but we need more dilithium crystals! You [to Normal]: He wants to know if he gets overtime.

Take the Polygeek Quiz at Thudfactor.com

The story continues!
I'm in the process of writing a letter to the laundry company what destroyed Justin and my laundry. The total damage estimate they're getting is $134.50 and they'd better pay it. Worship my mad complaint-letter writing skillz.

Today I spent the morning in bed. It was completely lovely and I've decided I should do it more often. I feel alert, more self-confident, and I've been noticing so many more things. Here are a few non-sequitors from about the last few days:

-The University has sold out to Pepsi. New contract; their old one was with coke. So the last few days Coke trucks have been parked all around campus slowly carting vending machines out of halls and buildings, emptying campus of it's sweet, sugary, carbonated goodess. Pop, bleah. I wish they would stay gone, so I could watch the soda gluttons, fat and thin alike, starve for their caffiene and aspartame fixes. Drink water, beeotches!

-Campus security has begun to tag "permanently parked" bicycles. Particularly around the rec center, I've noticed two or three bikes that have been there for at least the last three months. Two of them have been there longer and have become weathered, dirty, spider webs spun among the spokes and between the handle bars. One of them has two flat tires. The third, however, is a nice mountain bike with shocks and a new seat. Worth more than my own bike. Would anyone miss it if I stole it? Where did these people go that their bikes have dwelled under this overhang for months now on end? It is a mystery!!

-"S/he's nice, but..." Such a classic line about a relationship. It's the first time I've actually had anyone say it to me (in reference to someone else) and the ironic impact of it wasn't lost on me. First, if "nice" is an adjective you use for your partner, really, in any context, it's a sure sign there's problems. Aside from "smelling nice" and being a "nice guy" (still more an insult than a complement), the word "nice" such a no-impact descriptor that using it to describe someone just indicates the lack of a better word. Second, the conjunction, "but" in any situation "S/he's X, but..." is bad enough, BUT used after "NICE"? I recoil. People just aren't "nice" these days! What does that mean, anyway? "You're so NICE." Why thank you. What ELSE am I? Whoo, rant-a-licious. Sorry, it was just such a choice line. I had to pick it out and say, "agh! I hope I never hear that again about someone any one of my friends (or myself) is involved with!" No more gossip from me, tho. Nuh-uh. Not even anonymously. I only gossip about myself here.

-Sistrer Liz ("Cheezy P") just wrote me a letter. It's so sweet I have to share. That, and you can see that I wasn't lying about the cartilage pops.

Queen Tuna Q.
S'ok about the Cardigan. If you want it, you can keep it for all i care, I
never wear it. No need to mail it. I'm not touchy about my clothes like
Allie is, as long as you tell me sooner or later and give it back clean and
undamaged I couldn't give a damn if you borrow something. What kind exactly
are the cartilage pops? I've been craving them (nose cartilage... makes my
mouth water just thinking about it...) and I wanna know just what kind they
are so I can force mom to buy em... :). I hope you had fun in MI and I hope
Oma wasn't too on your case the whole time. Seemed to me like she wasn't
sure what exactly to say to you. I'm glad you liked our card. I thought you
my apreciate the randomness. :) I love you and miss you. I'll try to come
visit again soon! School starts in a week (eeek) so I'm tryin' to just chill
out and relax for the rest of the summer. Hope the rest of your summer is
good too! Luv yah!
*luv and kisses!* ~Cheesy P.

It's so awesome that I get along with all my sisters now. Growing up, I truly despised my family. I never loved my parents and I found my sisters absolutely annoying. But now they worship me and my parents treat me like I'm a human being. O the joy!

-Look! The most recent Newsweek has published an article on weblogs!

No news is good news
And once again comes the time of year when I must ask myself, "WHY AM I NOT AT BURNING MAN?!?!!?" I think about it and it makes me want to cry. I've wanted to go to burning man ever since I first heard of it, back when it was far more inconspicuous and low scale, before it (like everything else these days) rocked the web. I wanted to go so much back then but I couldn't, because of 'parental negotiation problems'. Then, I had the time. Now I'm shackled by work (I already booked by 3 weeks vacation this summer) and classes. I can do anything I want!!! So why am I not there? Please tell me that next year I'll be able to go... and next year, like every year since I was 12, I won't be sitting here wishing I was on the Playa.

An acquaintance of mine in Bellevue is going. She went for the first time last year; fell in love there. She wanted me to come be a part of their camp. Let's just say that while this girl is nice, she makes me uncomfortable. She's just too... out there... never went to college, wears her hair in dreads, works at a gas station, breathes more pot than air. Through her, Justin and I first got high. She also provided the wine that got me first drunk. I think she thrives off my "newbie-ness" and it makes me rather nervous. So I said no. It costs a bit and it means taking more time off work. I want to be able to go to the Man by myself. But I don't have the resources for it. I could never take Justin, it wouldn't be his thing. I'd love to go with Alex, but he'd never go with me. Finally, I think I know some people I could go with... but they've already gone this year. Sigh. The price I pay for waiting.

In any case, I've got a strong sense of anxiety about next spring/summer. Will I go abroad or will it just ruin my chances of Editorship with the Voice? Will it throw my college off? Should I do it summer instead and rack up more financial aid debt and not have the benefit of summer work? Bah. We'll see how the Voice thing goes, our first meeting is tonight and we'll get things squared away.

Oh, and I've listed a new comic called Return to Sender. The art is excellent and the story r0x. I stole it from Emily, who linked to it a while ago. (By the way, thanks for the tape, Em! I haven't had a chance to listen to it yet but I'll let you know what I think when I do : )

Call me Mrs. Vain
(I know what I want and I want it now...)
Beware, an entry in which I speak about all matters of EMBARRASINGLY girlie things including makeup, bras, and dieting.

This morning:
me: Aw, rats, I broke my makeup bag!
Justin: Gasp! Your Guccio Armani black, rhinestone-studded, hard-to-find, impossible-to-replace makeup bag?!?!?!
Me: Yup.
Justin: Well, shit!

Here's a bit about me: I keep my makeup in a plastic, zip-lok baggie, sandwich size. I don't wear much but I carry it in my purse, which means I take it with me pretty much everywhere I go. I only own a few standard items, several of which are over half a year old: spot concealor, sponge applicator, blush, mascara, eyeshadow, burts bees chapstick, lip liner (which I've had since prom my senior year). I don't need to wear makeup to feel good, or to go out in public. I used to be aghast at the thought of the world seeing my poor, disheveled face without preening a bit... Alex can attest to that. In fact, I have a picture around here of the ex's reaction to me putting on mascara. It's rather cute. But I still wear makeup almost every day. Enough to make me feel good, but barely enough to be there. And thanks to Alex's vehement hatred of my makeup, I always think of Helena when I'm applying it. I gotta say, the brain crossreferences things in funny ways.

I really am a strange girl when it comes to self-maintenance. I used to be much more hung up on cleanliness, clothes, and preening... mostly because I felt I wasn't attractive and no matter what I did I would look like a fool. I would be put off if I couldn't shower daily (at the same time) or dry my hair. I'd freak out to be without makeup (though the hormones really did wonders for my skin). I was upset because my mom refused to buy me brand-name clothes and took me shopping at K-Mart. Needless to say, all this stemmed from a gross misrepresentation in the eyes of my peers... err... I was made fun of. So were all of us with any real substance. But it gave me lovely complexes about self-image.

Thankfully, living on my own has given me control of all of these aspects of my life. I choose what I eat, what I wear, where I go out. I'll still buy brand names over not, but I won't buy the most expensive thing I find (I got the thriftiness from my mom anyway). So last night found me in Victoria's Secret deciding to buy bras. I haven't bought a bra since... well... Valentines day... but that one isn't for wearing OUT. That is to say, it's a great bra but doesn't look right under clothes. Erhm. But ASIDE FROM that... I hadn't bought a practical bra for a few years. I was "converted" to those lovely, nifty, tank-top built-in-bra things my freshman year and have since acquired vast quantities of them. I wear them year round. In the summer, exclusively. Other seasons, under clothes. They're comfy but problem is, they aren't really that flattering or uber-supportive. I'm sure you love to hear me complain, but I don't have the biggest god-given accentuation. So I decided to use my brand-newly-activated Gold Card to begin a history of DEBT and buy some bras at "Vickie's." I really hate bra shopping. There are too many things that are the same but different, that fit wrong and look bad... or even worse, that fit well, look good, and are $$PRICEY$$. Thus was the case last night. I went home with four for a grand total of $119. Not all, mind you, of which I plan to keep.

Buying bras is just sort of insulting. It's like buying makeup, but worse. We women feel like we have to pack ourselves into wire and padding, suck it in, hoist it up, all to look like we just tourniquetted our torsos. Well, I for one don't plan on looking like an African Village woman when I'm thirty, but DAMN... the padding on some of those things is ludicrious. Bleh. Like plate armor, I tell you! So now I have some and I have to decide, after parading around, whether I like the one that makes me look like Dolly Parton (wide load), Madonna (pointy), or Jennifer Aniston (perky). Ho hum. Can't we all just run around nekkid? Err... well... WALK around nekkid, it hurts less with the bouncy-bouncy.

In any case, all this preening made me realize that I still have self-image issues. Despite the fact that I'm over ten pounds lighter and five sizes (hurray for muscle mass) smaller than I used to be, I still look in the mirror and think, "(sigh) it could be better..." The truth is, it could. I'm fine with it now, I love myself, but I still want to go for that uber-built swimsuit model physique. I just don't know if I have it in me (literally). I mean, what the hell would I have to do? I work out 4-5 times a week doing cardio (1/2 hour, 400 cals), lift weights three times a week, bike a few miles a day, and eat healthy. Why do I not pwn my body? It still says, "nooo nooo iceeeecreeeeaaaammm.... we rullle youuuu." Shut up! Grrr. I just don't know what kind of effort it would take for me to lose the eight pounds I put on this spring. I think I'm really too contented and too lazy. And too much a size seven. Both of my sisters are a size seven. My cousin is a size seven. And the girl looks... small... to say the least. I could never be a smaller size, bones not permitting. So why do I even care? Ugh. This is me shutting up for fear of sounding obsessed (which I am, mind you, I just don't let on much). I really can't complain (but I just did) because I know I shouldn't try because that's where the problems start. I've been there before and I don't want to risk causing myself problems. It just doesn't make sense, for how active I am, that I should be stuck on this weird plateau. I want to be Super Girl, dammit! It makes me FEEL good.

It's almost lunch break and guess where I'm going? ... back to the mouse wheel! Someone dangle a sundae in front of my nose, please. ^^ And damn, the makeup is falling out of the hole I ripped in my ziplok baggie.

living at the speed of... blah...
I've been experiencing a funny feeling the past couple of days. It's akin to boredom, related to dissapointment, and not quite serenity. I noticed it when I was biking, a sort of hollowness that hits me when I breathe, almost like I'm coming down with something. It's a dull, spiritual ache, a dread of monotony, a claustrophobia. Then it hit me, I know what it is.

I am completely uninspired.

I don't complain for a lack of contentment, for that I have. I don't suffer from empty living or unenlightened misunderstanding, for these things I sought and found from my family during my visit to Michigan... but what I really wanted was staggering insight, an epiphany to rock me. Instead, I found normalcy.

I sat in airports and airplanes for hours with my journal in my lap hoping for reflection. I watched people walk by, listened to swedish rock groups being interviewed by amateur journalists, saw families fight and reunite. I saw the planes take off and light up, like stars falling from the sky. I was in transit, tied to nothing, at my utmost purest place... and still the words would not come.

I wonder why this lack of inspiration hits me now. Is it the monotony of life? Coming back from the faire, I realized that I dreaded heading home. In Michigan, I went where I pleased and when I got there, someone took care of what I needed. At the faires, I fended for myself but wherever I went people were obliging, playful, and generous. Most men (and some women) treated me like a princess. Everywhere I went people told me I was gorgeous and did things for me that I never would have asked. For these weekends, as Justin says, "I am a God." We don't know what we would do without them. Now faire season is coming to a close and as I look at the world around me I feel... average. I'm not the best dressed, most well-spoken, tallest amazonian. My movements don't call attention to me in flattering ways. I am less than stunning. I just exist to be here, another cog in the wheel.

Headed down I-5 Sunday in the short hour home from Salem, I realized I wasn't yet ready to come back to Eugene. I hadn't prepared myself for bills and dishes and catfood and errands. I especially hadn't prepared myself for nine hours in front of a computer every day. Thinking of this made me want to weep. "Justin," I said, "When we get home, neither of us is going to turn on our computers. We are going to check the answering machine messages and shut the door to the study. We are going to take a shower, make dinner, put a fire in the fireplace, sit down, have a glass of wine and get laid." For once, I actually managed to mostly relax. We did end up going to the grocery store in a mad rush, still dressed in garb (the second time we've gone to Albertsons in garb, the second shopping trip we've made this particular weekend (the other was to Old Navy where I explained to some people that no, I did not dress like this all the time and yes, this was Old Navy's fall line)) and sat down, after showinging, to soup and hard rolls in front of the fire. We skipped the wine and the sex; we were just too damn tired. It was really the next day that the businesslike mentality of cohabitation and home upkeep caught up with me. I realized that though the apartment was sound and clean after two weeks in Justin's hands (at least, until our unpacking trashed it), we really had yet to scrub the place down for having been there five months. So I started on that and, obsessively, didn't quit when I should have. I managed to save some for today before dropping dead but I'm not looking forward to finishing. Ah, yet another thing to aggrivate my Culture Shock at coming back.

I really can't wait for classes to start. I want variety! Excitement! Et Cetera!! If you want an idea of my schedule, take a look. Factor in advanced scuba for the first three weeks, Publishing the Voice, and mentoring a middle school girl in how to be L33t, and you have an idea of my 60 or so hour week (excluding homework time.) Ahhh.... so BUSY!!! I love it!! On top of that, I'm applying for four study abroad/ internships in Japan this spring that will hopefully come through.

I have things to do now, and only a few weeks left to do them in. But I feel no motivation. I feel like I'm biding my time for fall, waiting for the changing of the seasons; the changing of the guard. Ever since I was young, I've felt the seasons inside me. Seasons are not exclusive to weather and temperature. Like everything else, they have an essence and I feel that essence inside. It undulates, cyclical with the turning of the year, spinning through the changing wheel. I can't explain it, but it's something extraordinary and almost blissful; it's a blessing and a gift to feel the seasons like I do. Every year I start to feel and itch when the time comes for the shift from fall to winter, winter to spring, spring to summer, summer to fall. Fall is my favorite season. I love it with every core of my being. But it's not the same here. I miss fall in the east. I hadn't realized how much I craved it until I was just back there, seeing the first hint of the leaves changing on the trees, feeling the cold crisp creeping through the humid days and into the lengthening nights. We have lovely fall here but it isn't as dramatic. I need that drama. Oh well, the long, gray winters drive me insane enough. Everyone in Michigan kept saying how much better they thought the long rains would be than the snow and I kept telling them, "NO!! You don't KNOW what it's like!!!" Blar.

So... more about Michigan....

Be prepared for a long talk. I'll probably keep mentioning the trip through the next few weeks, so I may not go into a lot of depth here, just a summary of the rest of my trip. I'm not feeling particularly emotionally inspired today, so my experience in my home town or with Sian won't be written up to par. But there's plenty of time to reflect on those later and devote more attention to their passing. And so... the adventure continues...

To cut down on excess bloggage, I've chopped up some chapters into links. Click them to read that particular part of my adventure. Or don't, cause they're there for my own chronicallage... lest I some day grow old and forget. And now they're ilustrated!! WHEE!

From Michigan- Beulah to Ann Arbor(continued)
My rather disastrous and disappointing visit with Lesley.

From Michigan- Ypsilanti
The trip to my hometown... a walk through the old neighborhood and the house in which I grew up. A day that ended better than it started, with family and other people closer than friends.

That darn cat!
Ugh... so, I'm still playing catch-up. I promise to write more in the blog later today about the trip to Michigan and I should have the rather uninspired entries from my paper diary scanned in sometime later this week. This morning was spent sizing and re-upping the pics from michigan and the latest faires(gig2 and salem). I also plan on making all these hundreds of images into an html gallery with thumbnails sometimes soon. More user-friendly. Ah, hrm, anyway.

Cleaned house a bit last night, doing the big 6-month scrubbing. About this time in the Kincaid house I was bitching at Ali for being a slob and to spite me (and show her utter laziness and lack of self-respect) she hired a maid to clean. Oh well. Justin and I aren't nearly as bad. Small matter of grossness, though... found this on the bedside table. It's a frog. Apparently Rupert chased it inside and either killed it or left it cowering to dehydrate under the bed. Justin picked it up and it scared the bejeezus out of me because I didn't know what it was. Ew.

While I'm glad for Rupert's affection, he's been a bit dumb recently. This morning he RAN INTO my bike as Justin and I were leaving. I'm lucky, another foot and he would have been UNDER my tire. As is, he just smacking into the spokes like it was a wall. Then he got all puffed up and embarrased. He seems to be OK. Sheesh.

Home again, home again...
(jiggety-jig)
Ah Eugene. Ah, Salem. How smooth the air feels here, how clean... how... dry. I don't think I'll miss the humidity of the midwest, but so many other things I will miss.

It's both good to be back and hugely disappointing. I'm not sure that spending a weekend at the Salem Days of Olde faire helped me get reacclimated or not. It certainly got me reaccustomed to being with Justin. I'm grateful for that. After sleeping alone for two weeks and dealing with the fact that I really don't seem to have the hormone rushes that I used to have, I wondered how much I missed it. I still blame the Ortho Cyclen for my depleted yiffiness... part of me always wants to say "well, when I was younger (read: 13+)..." but then I realize, dammit, I'm only NINETEEN. Blar. I don't feel discontent, really, or imbalanced. I just feel... flat... the same, all the time. Sigh.

Anyway, the faire was fun. If you want, read the short article written about it in the Salem Statesman Journal that makes me look like a total tool, ditz, and fangirl. How embarrasing. I suppose it's justified, though, the guy basically tried to get the scoop on the Knights from ME and since I don't really belong TO the group I told him I couldn't officially give him details because I was only travelling with them. The "really geeky" comment sounds better in the full context: "I'm not really hardcore into the faires but I've been to more this year than ever before. I think they're fun because it's great to be around adults who can really play. These people do this for fun. It's not a job, it doesn't pay well, it's something we all enjoy. A lot of people think it's really geeky, but it's it's acting, really." It was funny talking to the reporter. He really had little social skills for someone who was paid to talk to people. It was obvious he was trying to set someone up for that first line about "feeling out of place" because he kept asking us that and we were like... "um, not really..." He also wore huge sunglasses the whole time he talked to us and had horribly crooked teeth. I can't blame him for the teeth but the glasses really bother me. I don't care if they're your new $250 Oakleys (Justinnnnnnn) or some cheap Wal-Mart plastic lenses, take them off so I can see you!!

From Michigan
Beulah to Ann Arbor
Now comes the dry stretch for the blog. I'm here in Ann Arbor in Les's room at her college house, having a helluva time trying to type on her keyboard. I'd write about the day but it's late, I'm busy and sleep is more valuable. I hope to get to a paper journal soon. That's where my entries will be from today on.

Tomorrow I visit Sian, and the day after go to Warren. Looks like Tuesday Les and I will attempt Cedar Point. But with her schedule so hectic and her friends so valuable, we may not go. Eh... whatever happens, happens.

It's been strange seeing her. I'm much more at ease with her bouncy, jubilant personality than i was when she came to Seattle for spring break. But still, things have changed. We had a long day of driving today, not much of it spent on the beach due to morning storms. See... I knew a storm was coming. We had one rather stressful incident early in the day where Les was pulled over by a hidden cop for going 53 in a 35. But he was nice and let us off scot free.

Anyway, eh, I'm going to bed. I've dumped most of the Mich pics to this point into a directory. They should all be there by early tomorrow. Go look if you dare, but they're unedited and are large files that may be sideways. here is the directory. Night all!

Please see this entry for the story of my visit with Lesley. It was less than great.

From Michigan
Sleeping Bear Dunes
Everything seems sad from the perspective of nostalgia. Even the happy times bring a sigh or a tear to the eye. Because they were there and now they are gone. Because they can only be fully appreciated in retrospect. I walk through these moments and my feet are slow, but they do not drag. I do not trudge through my memories but stroll steadily so that I may catch my breath from the frenzy of present day. I am at peace here. I visit every place with the utmost enthusiasm but remain open to the prospect of a new view. I bend with change; I do not break. I do not cling to memory with the iron vise of desperation. This was a time both pure and intense. But to it, I am neutral.

I have never felt a place like this before. I suppose the feeling would be similar, were I to return to Germany and if I remembered any of it. The impression that this place gives me is one of utter duality. There are things as I knew them and things as they are. What was remains as a ghostly overlay of what is. Were I depressed, I would call it a haunting. I would cling to vapor and weep as it left me. (Note to self: I never really feel this way when I go to Helena because my relationship to the place has grown as I have, as have the people I know there. There is a different haunting with Helena. The difference between there and here is that this is an utter severance and a deeper bond. I will always feel here as my roots.) But nothing idyllic can be tangible. I am grateful to find peace in my life, and with my family, though a few moments bring tears to my eyes:

We pulled off the road to the cottage and parked by the beach, where I walked today, and Gran said, "I told your Aunt Julie that when I could no longer leap over the fallen logs and hike down the beach, I wouldn't miss it. But I was wrong, I do." It made me wonder what right I have to be so hyper-nostalgic. Here isn't only my childhood (in fact, here is really only my summer vacations), here is a thousand childhoods. My mother spent far more time Up North than I did. And her mother's time here encompasses ours tenfold. I feel sad for her, weakened by Lyme Disease and with two bad knees, that she can't even enjoy the beach near her old home. But she said to me, later, as we cruised down one of the wide rolling highways (a wonder in a sports car... mmm... I always wanted to learn to drive up here), "Well, Kathryn, I'm glad that someone will be around to enjoy all this and remember it after we're Dead and Gone." That made me wince. She's always saying that, "Dead and Gone." I don't mind so much if she's at peace with her last twenty years on this earth, but I'd rather not think about returning for a funeral in five years. Still, saying that was a gift from her to me. She knows I have a great love for northern michigan. This place does not belong to me. But it is My place.

Today we drove again to the West coast of Michigan. Lesley couldn't join me as her brother's car got a flat and they weren't sure whether the new tire was suitable for travel in an unfamilar area. So Gran was kind enough to take me out of the Bay area and back to the open lake. My plan was to hike the great Sleeping Bear sand dunes back to the water, take a quick dip, and hike back. I knew it wasn't more than two miles to the water. Gran insisted it was too easy for me to get lost up there and wanted me to take some trail I was unfamiliar with. I disagreed. Anyhow, at this point in our connundrum, we drove by Port Oneida road and I decided I would opt for a walk on the beach. She drove me down to another beach a few miles away so that I could walk BACK to the cottage area and she would meet me there after running errands.

So I walked the beach. The climate in that area always changes from year to year, resulting in a different beach makeup each season. Usually, the face of the beach alternates between rocky and sandy, with varying degrees of dry grasses. When I stepped onto the beach, I found more damn zebra mussels and marsh grasses. Stupid ecological fluxuations. Stupid non-indigenous plants and animals. I walked farther. After trudging through one rocky patch and one area of intense mussel infestation, I could see clear down the beach. The water's edge was pure sand. The water itself was sand out to the bar. I was amazed... hardly any rocks! It was a pleasant walk. As I walked, I opened my mind to the scenery and was twelve again, coming back to the cottage after beachcombing. I picked up a few rocks and watched the shoreline for landmarks. It was strange, seeing things and recognizing them, suddenly remembering why a particular outcropping or growth had significance. Here marked the path up into the woods, a secret trail past a cemetary, an apple grove. There was the Old Green shack... a mysterious building that both parents and children feared. I poked my head inside and was surprised to find that instead of a reassuring interior, the place was dark and forboding. Moreover, it still terrified me. I latched it and ran. Look! A little trickle of water from the undergrowth carving a path in clay and sand down the hillside to join the lake. This was Alyson's stream. Father down, I find my own stream, still running. Some things never change. Gran always warned us about poison ivy- it thrives this time of year- but we never listened. We always trotted up the hillside and into the woods, barefoot and in our bathing suits and never once got a case of the itchies worse than a 'skeeter bite.

My strange haunting sense grew as I got closer to the end of my walk. I felt myself young and brown, saw myself climbing the steps to the cottage and strewing sand all over the front porch. I opened the screen door and the Daddy-Long-Legs fled. I toweled my hair in the entryway, looked over the couches and the breakfast nook. Through the living room, master bedroom, and kitchen. Into the back bedroom where we would whisper secrets and huddle in the twin beds, afraid of spiders. Here is where I first talked to my younger sisters about sex. Hush hush. Slam the back screen door. There was a hose here, and a laundry line. A picnick table, once upon a time? Mole holes and anthills... course grass scratches my feet. Sometimes we would run down the little slope here to the gravel turnaround. Sometimes we would run the other way down the hidden drive. The slope is bulldozed and the drive is blocked now, but in my head I toured the whole house, ending in the basement room and the garage which we seldom entered. Every place has an smell, a sound, an essence. It is still there, even if it is gone.

I swam in the lake for some time, letting the water hold me. The lake changes and it does not change. Today it was green with a bottom layer of algae from out deep... a storm is coming. At the end of the walk, I found myself inexorably drawn to a sharp cut up the hillside not quite where the public access trail should be. A new path? I wondered, so I climbed it... and no, it was not a new path, but the most familiar of all. Here was the baring of the hill where the old stairs to the cottage had been. Torn out, they left a soft scar in the hillside, steep but climbable.

Gran met me on the drive and we went to the dune climb after that. On the way, I stopped to take pictures of the old town hall and outhouse down the road from the Port Oneida cottage. Like all things here, these trifles will always remind me of home. Anyway, despite her insistence that I not climb back to the water, she was eager to let me indulge and scale the face of the master dune. She dropped me off outside and we met an hour after. Like all things big and brooding, the dunes haven't changed much. Even now, in the best shape of my life, they're still a bear to climb. I wandered around for half an hour, part of my mind still playing "lost in the desert" like it always did when I was young, and then climbed back down. It was good to know I remembered right... the path to the beach is well travelled, wide, and marked... no way to get lost among all the foot traffic these days. The view up there was incredible! But I was more glad for the walk down the Port Oneida beach than my dune climb, though it was a good workout.

When we got back, we roused Grandpa and went for dinner in town. It's hard for Grandpa to get the energy to do much of anything anymore after his strokes. When he talks, it's easy to get frustrated with his slow speech or at his mishearing of things said. It pains me to see him so stiff and slow, both physically and mentally. But he refuses to give up. Surprisingly, this is both a blessing and a curse. His perseverence has caused his health to soar in the past two years. For a long time after his strokes, he could neither talk nor walk well. Now he does both with passable accuracy. But he will not lay down his pen nor his sword. He still wants to work. Granted, what he does is write (and from home), so it's not a stressful job, but the stroke has decimated his concentration and his vocabulary. His typing skills are those of a child and he makes more spelling mistakes than a five year old. But he tries hard. He still wants to be the best travel writer and Editor in the east. But he can no longer edit his own work. He lives in words and deeds of the past. Frankly, I don't blame him... I'd be saddened at losing my skills, too. But there comes a time to appreciate the past for what it was and understand what is. He can't write, but he tries. And what was so great is going from him and will, in a few years, be gone.

There is a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I talk to him. I want to tell him what an inspiration he was to me but I never could connect or converse with the man. Even when he had his full wits about him, we never really talked. He was more a career inspiration than anything else. I envied them, travelling about, socializing, being well known. But now that I have questions, I find it hard to phrase them... and he he finds it harder to formulate answers. He showed me his office tonight, articles, plaques, letters, clippings, and slides from the last fifty years. He fought in World War II, has a signed photograph shaking hands with Kennedy. A letter from Truman and one from Form. Artifacts from most of the 173 countries he has been to. He finds these things easy to remember, at least. But when he speaks about them, there is a sigh in his voice.

We got him to come out and go downtown with us for the live music by bribing him with one of his favorite steak restaurants. I rarely eat red meat, but I decided tonight that since the cuts were choice, I'd opt for steak. The first I've had in five years- an 8 oz. Tenderloin. Yum ^^. I was very pleased with myself and with the steak, though it was a *bit* rare, being rather thick. After dinner, we walked the street and listened to the live music. I painted a bit on a public canvass, a flower for growth, a cat flourish to say, "I was here."

Later, on the porch, I drank a Boston Cooler (Vernors Ginger Ale and Vanilla Ice cream), talked to the cat and listened to the crickets wake up. I prepared myself for an emotionally busier day tomorrow, meeting with two old friends who I have not seen in over three years. I tried to take a deep breath and let go my apprehensions. I know that the more neutral I am, the fewer expectations I have, the less likely I am to find an old friend suddenly a scalding persionality. Let it ride, Kat... let it ride.

I watched the bubbles rise to the surface of the glass and crystallize on the ice cream, each one a requiem for a dream.

From Michigan
Port Oneida
The pilgrimage to Mecca. This is where all the dust piled into my mind's corners, on top of memories and feelings is gently blown and wiped away. Rounding a corner I know that it is the crossroads to the Leelanau school. Though I don't recognize it, like a million places here, I have been there many times before. I see everything here with my mind as much as with my eyes. I know that I've been through these streets and down these paths. I could navigate them with my eyes closed... but were I to open them and really LOOK, I would be lost in a minute.

We drove up the highway and into Glen Arbor and Port Oneida, where the cottage used to be before they tore it down. I'm surprised at how little the landscape has changed. They're putting up so many houses and there are a few more stores that I remember but there's so much space left. Everything is done in such an un-obstrusive way that you'd hardly notice the difference. No one is trying to be bigger, better, out here. No one is trying to scar the landscape with their newest business venture because they can. If they are, someone's done a damn good job at stopping them.

As we drove, I watched the farms and farmhouses fly by; a fruit stand here, a market there. Honest people in an honest city. A good share of tourist shmuck, but a clean way to make money. None of that big business crap here. No heart attacks over buying and selling stock, crazy internet ventures, over-caffienated triple mochas. They leave it to the West-coasters to sell out and die young.Here they'd much rather eat a nice, big steak; take a swim; and watch the sun set. Here they care more about their neighbors than their job. Here they know the shop clerks by name. Here small businesses haven't been smothered by the local supermall. Here, downtown is small and traffic is a joke.

Yes, I'm probably deluded. I know no area can be that pastoral. But I grew up here. Though I can't hear it, I still speak with the accent. What am I supposed to think? I always wanted to live here. I told myself, even when I knew I was moving away, that someday I would have a house up in northern Michigan with a view of the lake. I was in love with this area. I loved everything about it. Now I love the mountains and the sea and I tell myself that someday I will have a house in the San Juan Islands; a quiet little nook in which to watch the whales and breathe the rains. A place to be alone and a place to write. Yesterday, as we were driving, I realized that I never fell OUT of love with this landscape, that it still lives in my pulse and still draws me the way that it used to. There are no mountains here: there are huge cumulonimbus clouds that loom on the horizon, threaten rain and snow, and assume bizarre forms from the corner of your eye. There are no mountains, there are only hills. There is no sea, there is only lake. But it does not mean anything on a less grand scale; it is a different scale entirely. Here is not solitude, adventure, and freedom. Here is comfort, family, and friends. Here is not for the modern woman writer and her wanderlust. Here is for the future mother and her children. Here is Home.

They don't have forest like this out West. This is the Deep Forest, lined with fern and pine needles; nesting ground for deer and wolverine. This forest changes with the seasons, bright orange to bare. And in the winter the wind whistles through the pristine rows of evergreens, piling snow in deep drifts around the trees, howling at front doors and shaking shingles- kept only at bay by thick layers of down and a warm, roaring fire. This is the forest of my mind, the forest I walk in Quest. The West is wilder, it is freer, it is my liberation but this, this I recognize, I understand. It doesn't thrill me, but I *know* it. I know it with my eyes closed.

There are cicadas in the day, crickets in the night. The rain falls heavy on the hills and in the valleys. The trees sing. The beaches don't smell of fish and salt; they smell only of sand... a scent I didn't realize I knew.

The place I would bring my children is gone. The Park Service repossessed the property on past contract the year after my family moved. It was only a cottage and the land still lives, but I can never be there any more. The lot is empty, bulldozed and covered with the down of new grass. Pieces of the cottage are scattered in the dirt: a shingle, tile, glass, brick. I put memories in a small bag. I took a brick for Gran's yard. She clipped evergreens and sweetpeas to remind her. They pulled out the steps. Seventy-six of them down to the beach. Now, the path is treacherous and neither Gran nor Grandpa can walk it and I knew they wouldn't want to wait for me to take the walk I wanted, so we went together back to the car and left. Now, I'm sad that I didn't run into the woods, that I didn't hunt for secret paths along the beach and check to see if all the old fallen logs are still there. But I can walk every inch of that beach in my head. I wonder if my stream still runs.

The lot is empty but we found the house. It's the first time anyone's seen it since it was torn out of the end of Port Oneida road. It was moved into a gravel pit just east of Glen Arbor where it sits with several other repossessed homes. We drove to see it. I didn't recognize it and first. It looked pathetic, dingy white, desolate and smaller than I remember it. Of course, it is smaller, the downstairs, sitting room, and fireplace have been ripped off of it. But it's mostly intact. There's no laughter and skinned knees here any more, no grasshoppers and Wolf spiders. I couldn't track sand inside. I couldn't even pry open the doors. But I climbed up onto the flatbed and, sure enough, it was the same old house. We took pictures of it, around it; found the street number and pointed. Grandpa took out his pen and lined the address in black. I wrote my name and a message on the underside of the foundation, "Kat Ortland, 2002, my house! love always." They don't know if they're going to buy the house back and find some property for it or leave it with its new owner until he resurrects or kills it. For now it will lie there, comatose and dirty. I don't think I'll hear that screen door slam again.

We had lunch in Glen Arbor and I poked my nose into some of the old holes. Tiny Treasures, the Totem Shop... places that we had to go to at least once a trip when we were kids, for treats and souvenirs. Now I just find them annoying. Drove by the Sleeping Bear dunes next, now a Day Use fee area. The government really loves to milk the money out of memory. We didn't go in even though they said they would wait while I tried a quick climb. I might go back tomorrow with Lesley and hike the dunes to the water. We have dunes near where I live, on the coast in Florence. They might even be bigger, in places. But some part of me doubts it. These dunes will always reign in my head. I got more sand in my ears here than anywhere else. This family lost their first cottage to the dunes after the coastline eroded and the cottage nearly fell 100 meters down into the lake.

We sat up late and watched old home movies. Color, but with no sound. They jumped amusingly between time periods. There was my mother at five, fifteen, three, and eight. It was Christmas, then easter the year before and then summer ten years later. I could watch these movies forever. Gran gave me wine and Frangelico, just for fun, and we sipped as she ran commentary. A rather amusing moment in the kitchen ensued when she tried to break out a small airplane sized bottle of Baileys that was about ten years old.

Me: Hmmmmm.... *eyes bottle, shakes it, notes that contents inside are SOLID* huuuummm... *shakes it vigorously with no effect* I'm pretty sure these have expiration dates
Gran: No they don't, honey, they're alcoholic, give me that... *takes the bottle, looks at it*
Me: Yes, they're an alcoholic MILK product and I know for a fact that they expire because Justin had a huge jug of it that we were going to acquire when he moved that was a few years old and past date. It had one stamped on it and it was going bad
Gran: Well, I think we'll just give this a try *sticks the uncapped bottle in the microwave*
Me: Um. That's SOLID.
*microwave goes for about ten seconds. We hear a brief sizzle and then a huge POP sound*
Me: Uh- Oh....
Gran: That was just it defrosting.
Me: Defrosting?!?! *opens microwave* Oh. God. Eeeeewww...
At this point, the alcohol trapped beneath the solid curdled milk in the minature bottle had superheated and tried to boil using what air it could. It pressurized the cream and as the temperature rose, forced the air upwards again, blowing CHUNKS out of the bottle. There was a lovely, sticky-brown, chunky star shaped splatter right above the bottle. And chunks elsewhere around the microwave.
Gran: Here, dear. *wipes out the microwave, hands me the scalding bottle of baileys, still solid and now steaming with a rather FRUITY stench*
Me: *doubled over in laughter* Oh, eeww... *shaking baileys* It's CHUNKY.... *laughing hard* And eew, it SMELLS. *hands it back to her as she finishes with the rag*
Gran: *smells it* Smells good to me!
Me: *realizing that Gran knows nothing of what Baileys is SUPPOSED to be like* That's not what it's supposed to smell like. (it didn't smell bad, and definitely... fermented... but NOTHING like Baileys)
Gran: Oh. Well. Maybe I can cook with it.
Me: (aghast) Um. It's FERMENTED milk. And, anyway... you can't get it out of the bottle.
Gran: Oh. Okay. *puts the bottle back on the tray with the other liquers and gets ready to put it away*
Me: Ew. Give me that! *takes it, throws it away*

Man alive. You think that somebody from the cocktail generation would recognize a volatile drink when they saw one. Ugh!

So, anyway, I'm meeting up with Lesley tomorrow (maybe?) for a hike. I will, at least, be seeing her on the ride back downstate. I have to admit, I'm pretty apprehensive about seeing her. She was my best friend for several years but we've grown apart as we've grown up. Now all we really share is memories. It'd be nice to build something new but I don't know if we're compatible any more. It's also stressful to have to plan all these meetings, etc with someone I don't really know all that well. I'd rather be on her turf than risk making her uncomfortable at my expense. What if we have nothing to say? I don't know why, but I don't feel nearly as insecure about seeing Sian. Maybe it's because she's going away to Japan on Monday and if I mess up, I don't really have to worry about it. I shouldn't really worry with Les either.

The relaxing portion of my trip is coming to an end. The rest will be more intense and equally valuable, but I'll miss the quiet days up here on the lake- and my more liberal grandparents (Err... Grandmother, Grandpa likes Bush and listens to Limbaugh x-p). I never realized how much my two sets of grandparents dislike each other. It's almost a family feud but more a quiet, beneath-the-surface thing. I think everyone finds it hard to like Oma and she finds it hard to like anyone else because she has to be RIGHT. Well, she means well. I think. I hope she just doesn't get on my case about... oh... any number of things. (Lessee... eating right, boyfriend, religion, sex, school, parents, friends....etc etc) Actually, to tell the truth, I look forward to her getting on my case because nothing she can say will faze me. I just don't want my response to come down on someone else's head. She can't paddle me no more!

Well, I do believe I've completed my brain-dump successfully and will now reward myself with some time with Tolkein in the sun. Oh, and later going to town to get Gran a latte. She's never had one before! Muahahaha! Will my corruptions never end!?!?!

From Michigan
The Bluffs
Now I laugh at how quick I am to sleep on planes, and how soon I adjust to time differences (albeit, only three hours later). I must be getting old.

It also strikes me as ironic that as soon as I come out here, expecting to swelter in the midwest, it's upward of 100 degrees back home and only seventy-five here. It's raining though, a warm, sticky, humid summer rain nothing like what we ever have in Eugene. It rains and rains and rains, BIG, wet, drops that will soak you in an instant. And in an instant a downpour can become a vicious thunderstorm or... stop... and be as sunny as it was five minutes earlier. When I stepped off the puddle-jumper yesterday, a hot, wet wind nearly blew me off the runway. I thought, "this must be what the plane feels like, flying over the great lakes every day..."

So I'm here at my Gran (formerly known as Yia-Ya) and Grandpa's house in Traverse City on the Bluffs. Well, technically it's BELOW the bluffs, but it's on Bluff road. The water from the bay, Lake Michigan, is just across the road as I remembered it three years ago. Things stay the same, but they still change. The water level has dropped to extremes. They haven't had the dock out since we left and hence haven't been able to moor the speedboat in front of the house. What was a rock and sand beach is now almost a marsh, swampily filled with tall reeds and grasses. Apparently there are polliwogs and leeches nesting there. POLLIWOGS... in a Great Lake! Blasphemy!!

I haven't gone swimming in the lake yet. It's been pouring buckets on and off, too cool (though it feels hot) and cloudy for a satisfying swim. I went with Gran to her aqua-aerobics class today to get a little excersize, but the instructor was out so the ladies all diddled around and did a mini-workout while I chatted and swam. I took a thirty-minute run on the road later in the evening (between rains) to compensate. Oh, and last night saw Uncle Steve and Aunt Kathy with Melissa, their daughter, for a while. We had pork ribs (yes, me ate pork x-b) and chatted. Damn, that child has gotten HUGE suddenly! But I suppose they think the same thing about Eleanor... and me, for that matter.

Things here are comfortable. I don't feel at all out-of-place. Slightly doted on and a little nostalgic... but it's not weird. I really haven't sat down and contemplated the business of "getting back to my roots" yet. I suppose that's what I'm doing here, after all. I decided to come back to Michigan one morning in June after having a nervous breakdown upon discovering my grandmother was flying all my sisters- but me- back to Warren for a month. So here I am mostly of my own means (and hence a much clearer schedule) with nothing in mind except to see what I can see.

Tomorrow we're driving up to Port Oneida road, where the cottage was. This was my sacred space growing up. Thankfully, I realized it was a sacred space and was able to enjoy it as such before we lost it to the Park Service. Stupid contracts, stupid preservation of land. They condemned the property shortly after we left and it's taken them this long to move the house to a different location. Their plan to "preserve the dunes" has left them with a lot less maintained and more corroded than when we spent time there, at least to my understanding. I suppose I'll see tomorrow.

It's really easy to talk to Grandma... though I still have a hard time not calling her by her chosen pseudonym, Yia Ya. She seems spritely and as sharp-minded as I remember her. Grandpa, on the other hand, has suffered two strokes since I last saw him. I always had a more difficult time talking to him because he was always so strongly-spoken and, well, republican. But to be honest, he was a great inspiration to me... the Travel Journalist of the family, the Adventurer. I never knew it, but he was who made me want to be what I am. Thankfully, he's recovered a great deal from the devastating sensory and memory loss caused by his strokes and is much easier to talk to. He seems to get a bit lost in memories sometimes, and I can still never think of anything to ask him about (I get flustered) but at least I have the chance. Oh, and the Gato... Squeaker Tom... a huge black cat with a soprano squak. Hairy and loving as always. What a great house.

It smells nice here, like rain and childhood. I don't know if being here (or anywhere else I'm going, for that matter) will send me any revelations but it certainly is comforting.

Lesley is coming up North tomorrow, and we shall probably see each other for a day in Traverse City. I'd be content to sit here and read and sleep but I'm also eager to see her. Eager and anxious. Her voice doesn't sound quite like I remember it and I'm kind of scared to see if/how she's changed since high school. I know I have... but I'm proud of it. I'll be riding down with her to Ann Arbor on Saturday to spend a few days with Sian before she heads out to Japan on Monday. Then I've got the better part of that week with the other set of grandparents... the ones who (hoo boy) don't know I'm a heathen witch with a demoralizing living situation. (oh ya!) Looks like I might even get to go to Cedar Point with Lesley that week!!! SWEET. West Coast, you have nothing on this amusement part. Enchanted Forest can suck... yah... erm....

Well, I'm off to a peaceful, quiet sleep before I ruin my start at time adjustment. I miss a bed mate but it's also a welcome change. Especially not having to fix anyone breakfast in the morning. ; D

I hope work is holding up well without me. Apprarently some idiots didn't get the list mail I sent out to both my departments, cause they're all like "help, my printer's broken!!" like they can't look up how to fix it on the internet. So I was like, "did it go be be bee beep and eat, like, half your paper?" cause I found it on the internet and sent them how to fix it. And my grandma uses AOL. *smacks forehead* Sometimes I wonder if there's hope for progress anywhere in the wide world web....

But I digress. I must impress, I'm not here for progress but to regress. SO, I suppose, this is my cue to take my repose... upon white, downy pillows

ah, crickets and fireflies.... night rains... how I missed you.

Sleeeeeeeeeeeep
For that matter, what IS it?
And what does it do? Did you know scientists don't know what the purpose of sleep is? They know that deprived of it, and animal will go insane or die. But why? It replenishes nothing REALLY that a lie in the shade couldn't do. It heals nothing that your body shouldn't be able to do on it's own. It gives you no measurable nutrients.

But all multi-celled mutli-part animals (I think) have a sleep state. We don't know why...

Personally, I think that sleep must provide the body with some sort of non-quantifiable energy similar to a nurtient form. Otherwise we would just rest to heal and eat for energy. Or maybe it serves to re-synch the cells of a multi-celled organism. Or power the brain. If it doesn't have an evolutionary purpose (Besides the old "vulnerable at night" theory), sleep seems like a waste of time. Why not get all nutrients from food and spend less time in a vulnerable state? It'd pay to be awake all the time, a super-productive being.

Or why not sleep all the time and waste less energy? Justin has a theory that that's what trees have evolved to be; beings who take their nutrients from the environment but are in a constant state of rest, having developed over time mechanisms of feeding and protection. Aahh... that sounds nice right now... and eternal sleep....

**********
I'm updating from home with the shitty computer with shitty monitor and shitty keyboard, hence I excuse myself from any spelling/ caps errors that ensue. I am UNBELIEVABLY tired. I know I have no right to complain, not being one of the players who runs about all day in armor... but I was on my feet in the sun all weekend, too... running water, blistering my feet, covered in dust, sunburning my toes.... GUH. Sometimes the weekends seem longer than they should. OK, overall, it was a great experience. I'm learning less to care about the vendors and more about the camp... I only managed to make one non-food purchase this weekend, a shirt to replace the one destroyed in the laundry tragedy. The Knights are becoming like family- it's hard to believe that I'm really not one of them. Sometimes, to be reminded of that (and that I'm underage) stings a bit. Justin's 21 is so wasted on him.

Saturday night was by far the coolest. Sat out late in front of the fire bonding with a gnarly old chap by the name of Mike Grell. He gave me a massage for about an hour while we talked of all manners of Magik and spiritualisms and Life in General. People like him give me hope for the world. He prepared me wonderfully for a walk back into my own past. Rather indirectly, I must say, but wonderfully. He told me stories from his own visions, of the Bear Wife, the Raven, and the blue Lizard. I've found a true friend... a kindred spirit, so to speak. It was funny how I knew it, too... because I just suddenly did. I'd hardly ever talked to the man at all before but suddenly, when a group of us returned from dinner Saturday, I had the undeniable urge to give him a hug. Twas a funny looking hug, b'cause he's about half my height, but it was a warm hug and he looked at me and said "you give good hugs." Might have been the "wiew," but it's the first time anyone's told ME that and being that I hold good hugs so integral to a happy life, I was flattered.

It. Was. HOT. SO BLASTED HOT this weekend. I thought someone would surely die. Oh my god... I know it's preparation for Michigan but I'll TAKE that heat, just not in leather, petticoats, a bodice, and boots. Not to mention ARMOR. Ye gods. I'm glad to be home. Just waiting for the parents to come in the door from their trip. I might pass out in a minute or two... my body aches with a carnal lust for sleep. I've a belly full of warm vanilla milk and a yearning for a real bed. Not showering for two days, sweating like a pig and being covered with a thin layer of grey dust makes one's visit to the Middle Ages even more realistic.

It will be strange, being away from Justin for two weeks. It's been five months since we were separated like this every weekday. But I look forward to sitting on the dock in front of my grandparents' house in northern Michigan, looking out at the bay. Ho Hum. I miss. him already...

I love you, sweetie! Think of me and give Rupert lots of hugs!

so, yeah...
at least they said they'd compensate us for the couple hundred in clothes we lost. sigh.

anyway, J and I are off to Gig harbor now for another round at the Faire. I'll try to update from home Sunday night before I leave and the first week in Traverse City, I'll have an on/off internet connection. After that, I'll be gone for a while. In any case, I'll keep writing from where I am. Ciao!

KILL

KILL

KILL

Must... control... violent... urges....

OK. Kat's MAD. When Kat gets MAD like this MAD, Kat kills things. Namely Chase Village Staff who are responsible (albeit indirectly and will probably claim no liability) for the DEATH of an entire WHITE load of laundry to FUCKING ENGINE GREASE!!! DO. NOT. FUCK. WITH. MY. CLOTHES. Sound materialistic? Well, IT FUCKING IS. But I just lost $100 plus of overshirts, garb, t-shirts, tank tops, and underwear. Would you want to wear underwear saturated with black, oily MACHINE GREASE?!?!?!? Socks. OK. OK. I'll take the fucking socks. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ONE PACK OF FUCKING SOCKS COSTS?? WHERE'S THE GODDAM MAINTENANCE MAN? Let me tell him who has his balls in a vice. Me. Tomorrow Kat plays international diplomat. She will waltz into the main office with her laundry, dump it on the desk of the lurvly office ladies and spit. Not because clothes matter but because she is going out of town and this was her CLOSET that she needed WASHED. We pay $1.00 for a QUALITY washer and $.75 for a dryer that doesn't usually dry on one load. There are SIGNS that say "we don't care what happens to your clothes." NEWS FLASH. I CARE. I am a college student. This is not one shirt. This is a WHOLE WASHER OF CLOTHES. So we will negotiate because soon my lease is up. If they want me to stay and if they don't want bad press, they will give me what I want. Or they will find themselves with a very weepy, violent woman on their hands. SO I AM SPOILED, FUCK THEM ALL. There is no Zen right now. There is only revenge. Or cash. That will shut me up.

AAAAAAUUUUUGHHHH!!!!!

I cannot fucking believe this

Look what I found...
An older journal. The first entry.

I was looking for a journal to take with me to Michigan this morning. Now that I've been blogging every day for almost a year, I need to write down some semblance of thought every day. I'll take a book with me to hold the entries that I can't make online. That way, I can scan what I don't post when I get home. I collect blank books. So I looked through the collection on my bookshelf. They have some symbolism of limitless potential- they can be anything, but only while they're still blank. So I leave most of them unwritten. There must be ten of them scattered around the house. Today, I found three books of poetry, two blank journals, two diaries started, never kept. One of the two is a remarkably beautiful cloth journal that I picked up at Circle of Hands during the Eugene Celebration last year. God... I can't believe that was almost a year ago. I had just moved out my my parents' house into my first rental at 24th and Kincaid. The year before, I had been in the dorms. Being in the dorms is a form of liberation, but not the real thing. Now I knew I would never live at home again, at least not for a long while or unless bad things happened. It was the weekend after 9-11. Justin had come down for the festival, which was under fire for being held so close to the "tragedy." They Might Be Giants had to cancel because there were no planes for them to fly to the West Coast. That friday, before the festivities started, there was a thunderstorm. On the drive down, Justin saw people on overpasses, lining the streets with candles. It rained on the candlelight vigil they held downtown. We went anyway; we were an hour too late. Saturday night when we went for some revelry, I saw the book for sale at Circle of Hands. I passed it by because of the price ($25) but it spoke to me. Later that night while we were watching fire dancers spinning wild to loud techno beats, I snuck back to the store and bought it, my hands greedy for its potential. I wrote four entries in it before I knew that it wasn't meant to be the thing I was making it. Only the first one still rings true. When I read it, I got goosebumps:

9-19-01
How on earth to begin? Things are changing... have changed, will change. But it seems as if, right now, the world has gone mad with change. American has again been surprised that it can still lose what innocence it has left. That it can be taken unawares, raped, laughed at. Amidst all this, I have finally left the nest, bruised and stunned in the same way. I am hurt and shocked by terrorism. I have been forced to re-evaluate my country, my lifestyle, my values. I must question my patriotism while still newly marveling at capitalism's cursed effect on the price of house-hold cleaners, kitchen goods, toilet paper and pet-care products. It's enough to make me reject society altogether!

I've mostly recovered from the slow, gripping sadness of the week previous, freed by the monotony or work and a Norman-Rockwellesque barrage of supportive American flags. I no longer cry myself to sleep in my head but I do light a candle nightly for those lost in New York, DC, and Pennsylvania. Life goes on.

But to where? I'm no longer a fledgeling; I stand alone, finally pushed into being a part of my battered nation. Waiting in line at the grocery store, I am every woman; no longer tie to my man, my parents, my "home." I am one of many finding a place in a country I forgot was there. Maybe I never knew America was there at all. I am of a generation of innocents who can still find the time to celebrate during tragedy, to laugh in the face of danger and somewhat stupidly turn their backs on politics.

On September 11, 2001, I grew up. I decided not to think it was "cool" when the smoke cleared from the trade centers. And on the 15th, as I wastched a young firedancer spin to Trance, I knew I needed another journal to guide me in my dance, through my transformation. I wanted to BE her, to have my own elemental magic, to be a part of passionate innocence and of a rhythm that is something, finally, greater and more real than my own.

Thanks, BLOGGER, for guiding that dance!

Oh, I love you too...
Fire flies dance operas to your wisdom.

Vicarious Living
Looks like I'm going out to lunch with Cole again tomorrow. As Justin put it, "I think he likes you." Yay me. ^^ I was talking to Cole in the SRC today and he told me I'd "done a whole lotta living for nineteen years." It always makes me feel good to hear things like that. I know I don't know a damn thing about the world... but it's good to feel well spoken and mildly sage. I like the chance to play my archetype, to give advice and to reflect. It pays to be introspective.

I'm surprised more people aren't open with their inward meanderings. In fact, I know several people who are less than keen about sharing their weblogs with people they know or with family members. They feel they have to watch what they say. I don't really blame them, but the way I figure, people can either like me for who I am or they can go suck donkey cock. That doesn't mean I'm going to be completely liberal with my criticism of people I know who read this blog. Nor will I generally bash people by name. I have tact. Not a whole lot of it, but I do. There is a difference (be it a fine line) between Honesty and Insult. The difference, I believe is truth. Now that's a subjective statement. By Honest I don't mean "this is how it should be" but rather "this IS how I feel" rather than one hot moment of anger. The tough part is deciding whether something to be written is how you feel NOW or how you feel REALLY. I try to only write what I REALLY feel.

Still, I don't understand people's hysteria about their name and the names of people they know being pubished on the web. (The irony with this link is that it's now a "blog of note" listed on the main Blogger page.) THERE IS NO CONSPIRACY AGAINST YOU. If there is, should you really care? If people want info about you, they'll find it anyway. The more difficult you make it, the more people want a challenge. You want my name? Hell, have it. You want my social security? Why the hell do I care... I have to use it for every goddam thing on this campus anyway. You want my address and phone number? Well, it's easy enough to get those if you know my name. I don't think the world is out to stalk me or steal my identity. I don't have much to offer, really.

I do understand genuine concern about family and friends who might be grossly sensitive to criticism. But really, it's these people, not the writer, who need to change. If you're writing what you REALLY feel about someone you know and, to their disappointment, they read it... let em deal. They should be able to process criticism if they have a brain.The blog is YOUR world. No one can change it. Thought I can kind of understand not wanting to let certain people up-close-and-personal into your brainspace, I do think it's a shame. When I started this blog, I gave the address to my mom, my sisters, my grandmother, and my boyfriend's mom. Some of them looked at it, some of them didn't. I was surprised, really. I guess they were either bored by it, offended, it went over their head, or they really aren't tech savvy enough to care. Either way, I never heard one word of feedback from them. The only people I know read this are friends and all the anons (hello anons, say hi!), with whom I use his blog as a calling card. This is who I am. There's no reason for me to censor myself.

It feels good to finally be confident enough (and have few enough secrets) to say that.

Also, read this. It r0xx0rs. Oh, but first, you must MUST MUST **MUST** watch the Mac Commercial featuring "Ellen Feiss". Otherwise you will not understand some of the jokes. Is this girl not baked out of her MIND? And for that matter, what the hell is UP with Mac's new ad campaign? Like, "Hello, I'm a computer moron and certified elitist asshole and since I'm too dumb to use windows, I switched to Mac." I guess that's still Thinking Different but it makes me want to vomit and throw that new iMelon through large department store windows. Blar! BLAR, I say! Mr. Jobs, you are soooo close to being a whipping boy for satan, just like Mr. Gates. Perhaps he'll make you matchin leather outfits. Dance, monkeys, dance!! Muahahaha.... (wow, I've ended both of the last two entries with an evil laugh...)

In other news...

NOoooOOooOoO!! Timmy is dead! No, not "Timmah" Timmy, the litle midget boy from Passions! I only watched the soap a few times but it is one of the most demented soaps out there. I think it delights in making fun of other soaps in its hilarity. They recently killed off his character on the show .. but... I mean... he's REALLY DEAD!! *sniff* He was so young....

Annnd.... Remember the stupid Lake Oswego girl who faked her own abduction? Well, Justin was right... they WILL make her life hell with follow-ups. First, it was news that they arrested her boyfriend. And now she's been arrested. Why? For marijuana possesion while wandering Washington in a jeep with burnt-out headlights and an unliscenced driver. OOOKay. Got some quality friends there, missy. A totally non-newsworthy headline (front page, Oregonian) for anyone but her. I think Portland is set on defaming the lass. It'll sure be news when she becomes a little hussy (the only job I bet she'll be able to get after all this- and fogettabout college!) and no one will hire her because the paparrazzi and the FBI are watching her. You go girl! Dye your hair black! Hate the world like a little, rich, goth wannabe! We're ALL laughing now! (Muahahaha)

More Faire Pics
Huzzah! I've uploaded Ye Merrie Faire pictures from the Magic Nikon Coolpix 950. Yup.

Here's a quick link to the directory. All pictures from Gig week one are labled gig1 (conveniently). Here's the layout and explanation:

The badb, some mean and nasty Fae who like war and blood and generally crushing mortal playthings. They're not all like that, just omnipotent.

Yes, the Knights believe in fantasy play. If you need more proof, meet Jester. Jester is Dave's other character besides Wolfgang, a commander for the Red faction. Dave was in the military. He likes to yell. He loves to work the crowd. He's also a little too good at being insane. We think he might enjoy being Jester a little much.

I got bored waiting for the fights to start and took a picture of my head. Ooh, look! A Dwarven Smith!

I wear green. I cheer for the Green Faction. Let's just say I like their politics and/or just so happen to look good in their colors. Justin is a blue but thankfully doesn't mind that I pledge allegiance to Karl's faction. I like the greens, especially when they kick the shit out of Justin. I don't think sir Faelin was quite as lucky with Emil.

A couple horse shots: Dame GeLeah on Fancy and Sir Phillipe on Joey. Sir Phillipe was the lucky knight who was thrown on Sunday and bent the wrought iron stake holding the joust lines. Joey is a "green" horse, meaning he's still learning.

Las, but not least, the kickass green leather bodice!! Me with Larkin, sweetie to the master of Ravenswood Leather. We're twins! And look, we even got a picture with the Old Man himself, Damian! I've got a few more of me in the bodice, but I'm all squinty in the sun. I know that's not what yer looking at anyway. ; )

That's all for now. More later... perhaps I'll have Justin post while I'm in Michigan!

Packet Luv
Brought to you by Brunching, suppliers of my Oral Sex Donation utility, and Sian, my oldest and bestest friend, it's the Geek Heirarchy!!! Right now, I fall somewhere just about "Ren Faire Folk." I MIGHT be "Pokemon Fans over the age of six," but hardly to the extent to which it is possible. I guess I got less geeky. I used to fall pretty damn close to... the bottom. *wince* .... Erhm, well, I'm actually rather proud of the bit of furr-ness in me, or at least being able to acknowledge it. I'm not ewasily embarrassed, you know. That and I have little shame and only a small amount of modesty. *smirk* However, I'm rather surprised that this heriarchy doesn't have a tech tree. I'd like to think that somewhere in there, I we geeks might be able to differentiate the degree of geekiness between someone who understands networking and someone who speaks l33t. Alas.

Also, huzzah! Rupert has been added to ProjectGato on blog Eh? Rupert is happy. In fact, he is excstatic. In fact, he's digging his claws into my... ow, OW! STOP THAT!! Little bastard... Eh? is the newest addition to blog links, a cute little number- comic and insightful. Please read the one about gay vampires. Ok, I must admit, what I really like about this blog is that it seems to be part of a blogging couple: Viv and Ted. I admire this. Web feedback and interaction! Instead of what I get from Justin "oh, yeah, ok, hon... read it... you gonna put that in your weblog? mumble mumble..." And he who updates his blog once every three months. Bah. Lucky girl, Viv.

I wore the kickass green leather bodice today. It is infinite in its kickassedness. I'm quite pleased with it and so many people were pleased with my boobies. I mean, my bodice. Ahrem. It's a great look with jeans an the swordsman shirt. Somewhere between pirate and leather fetishist. I don't know which one I'd enjoy being more! The Ren Faire life is slowly seeping into every day. God, what will my grandparents think? Soon I'll be a grubby peasant wearing only natural cotton and never washing my hair, playing all day in the fields a heathen like... OH MY GOD, I'll be a hippie just like the rest of Eugene! ACK!

I spent most of the day working on a letter to the Chase Village people to try and convince them to give Justin and I free money if we renew our lease. I tried to mix equal parts diplomacy and brown nosing, ample amounts of each. Tastes like brownies and highly effective for disarming college student stereotypes. Unfortunately, I made myself look like a complete blonde handing them the letter. I went into the leasing office and gave it to Margo who noticed that I misadressed the envelope. No big deal since I wasn't intending to MAIL it, but the way it was labled would have sent it TO me FROM them. Pay attention, Kat!! Oops, bummer.

I can't believe I'm going to Michigan so soon! I've been having all sorts of weird dreams about old friends, enemies, and people that I just saw in passing. The Knights are starting to appear in my dreams, too. Life is so full of dreams! And I sleep so much better now that it's a bit cooler at night. The temp is supposed to rocket back up by the end of the week, making for a scorching Gig Harbor trip if it's anything like here. I'll spend the night at my parents' on Sunday and fly out Monday morning. The 'rents are celebrating all three sisters being out of town by going Sea Kayaking in the San Juans, staying a night in Vancouver BC, and going on a mini-backpacking trip. I'm so glad for them! Mind you, I don't like to think about them "rekindling the fire," but they're doing so much better than they were a few years ago!

In any case, that's all for now. A chipper entry from a chipper girl. *summer sigh* This fall will be so busy what with classes (See posted schedule), work, publishing the OV, going to the gym, and mentoring a middle school girl. Busy but worth it! And I'm starting to look into internship/ study abroad programs for the spring. So much to do!

Ah but Kat, that's the way you like it. *grin*

Summer with the Carnies
So I'm back, here at work in front of the WebCam and waiting for the Internet to entertain me.

According to humanforsale.com I am worth exactly: $2,197,096.00. According to thespark.com, my purity test score has dropped five percent since the last time I took the test, bringing me down to a grand total of only... FORTY percent pure. I bet Cat still has me beat, what with all the crazy shiiat she's been doing all summer long. But man...

Guh, I feel like a cog in the great big societal machine coming back to work after a weekend at the Faire. I grew up with parents as close to mundane as mundane is, always hoping there was something more and always being disappointed. Well, I wasn't crazy... I found what I was looking for- adults who PLAY and play HARD... These weekends at the faire are utterly exhausting, working and playing and running about. But they are the most wonderful thing, by far, that has happened to me in a long time.

Life is great right now. That sort of amazing, living-the-moment wonderful, crazy-happy summer euphoria that won't last but means the world while it does. I'm not clawing through knee deep emotional shit or looking so hard to the future that I can't enjoy myself. I've reconciled the past and I'm enjoying the present with great satisfaction. It's a world of decadence.

Friday, we drove up to Gig harbor. On the way out of town we saw a huge smoke cloud billowing off one of the hills south of Eugene. Impressed as we were, we still have no idea what caused it. The drive to Tacoma took over five hours, traffic was heinous, but we still decided to bypass the turnoff and drive all the way into Seattle for Sushi. Justin's g-pa from the east coast was i town, staying at the Four Seasons (the NW's only 5 diamond hotel!) on a layover with his new lady-friend. They invited us to dinner with them, so, after a brief but filling appetizer at Toyoda's, we had seafood at Shuckers in downtown Seattle. Can we say Gluttony? ; ) Got into Gig Harbor late but giddy and in time for me to play (but lose) another game of Munchkin.

Gig Habor fair is something special. It has a TON of merchants and is rife with guilds, SCAddians, Bavarians, Knights and more. It's not a real eye-catcher or tourist trap, it's more an encampment of die-hard faire goers who stay the weekends and maybe even the week between. Saturday was pretty much uneventful. The knights performed well with only slight hitches and the weather was pleasant. Justin made my "big purchase" for the faire, a green leather bodice from RavensWood leather. It completes my swordswoman/amazon getup, an outfit I'll only wear when I feel toerant of the attention it gets me. I swear to god, while in this getup over ten strangers (men) took my picture (most when they thought I wasn't looking, some posed me), five men escorted me across camp, and two offered to buy me a drink. Yippee. ^^

Saturday evening we went out to dinner with some of the knights at a local bar. After we came back to camp, we headed to the Faire tavern... a scene straight out of bad scenema. Dimly lit, bellydancers, drum circle. We drank a little and laughed a lot. Even Damian (the Old Man, the head honcho) lightened up a bit and took me under his wing. When we returned to the Knights' area, we sat in front of the fire until it went out. I'm grateful that morning role call at Gig is at 9:30, not 8:30 or 9 like we've had to deal with in the past. It makes for a more leisurely morning.

Sunday the weather was bipolar. One minute it was freezing and pouring, the next it was sunny and muggy. Ask the Knights which they prefer and they'll tell you they prefer to be shot instead. Wearing forty plus pounds of armor and running around in either pole of weather is not exactly a good time. Granted, inclement weather makes for a great sense of cameraderie as merchants, tourists, and actors alike huddled underneath pavillions to shelter from the downpour. BUT, it also makes for slippery fighting and confused horses. We were one horse down in the morning, due to the fact that Damian's horse decided to run a line on Saturday and hurt his leg. By the end of the day, only two of five riders were really operational. The last act was when it struck home.

I know some people think coreographed fighting is lame. I know I've thought the same thing. But I have utter and complete respect for all these fighters, especially those on horseback. You can't coreograph a joust or a light horse run. You can STAGE it, but you can't fake skill. You must know how to ride to ride well. Well, in the third act, horses decided to be stupid. One rider was thrown into a wrought iron line peg after his horse ran OVER the joust lines. Luckily, the stake just bent and the rider (mostly clothed in plate) was fine. In the next joust, someone aimed a bit low and hit the Gold rider in the gonads... with the LANCE. I saw that one. Ow. That gentleman was also alright after hopping up and down for a while and hobbling off his horse. The real kicker was this, and I (nor most of the audience) never even saw it happen. In the last foot fight of Sunday, Fighter A was attempting to further plot by exposing Fighter C and hence did not pull his hands out of Fighter B's strike zone. What was supposed to be an axe hit blocked with the hilt of a polearm came down onto Fighter A's FINGER and ... well... crushed/ sliced it. He didn't let the audience know though, and was later taken to the hospital for repairs. So the last act was a distaster from the actors' standpoint. But the audience loves blood and mishaps. They think it's COOL when the Knights really get hurt.

There wasn't any teardown Sunday night. All the tents and pavillions have been left up for next weekend. We left site near 7:30 and got home before midnight. I drove most of the way, more than confident that I can now drive manual without killing myself or freaking out. The sky was lit orange with sunset behind us as we drove down the corridor back to Eugene. No traffic aside from some gawking at two major police events: one drug bust where a cop car was sweeping the road for a tossed item and another bust with five cars after a van. I turned up the music and sang along. Pink Floyd's Coming Back to Life loud, on a perfect summer night.

One week till Michigan.