A Spy

Do you think I'd make a good spy? A friend told me yesterday that she imagined me as one.

You'd be perfect, she said.
Nobody would ever suspect you.
You tell the world about your most personal moments, but keep secret information about nuclear testing, or drug smuggling.
The ideal cover: Confessionalist/Spy.

Missed Connections

I scan the "Missed Connections" section of the local classifieds and regional Craigslist compulsively. It's not a habit I'm proud of; i never do it at work and I try to erase it from my computer's history. It's very strange, you see, because I'm not looking for a date, and I'm OK at making friends the old fashioned way. You know, by like meeting them at work and then maybe going out for coffee or something to bitch about the management or something.

But I cannot help myself when it comes to these ads, and I don't know why. I believe it has to do with the idea that someone might recognize something special in me, and care enough to try to find it. Or recognize me, and sum me up in a few short lines. Like this one, recently posted in Missoula.

OXYGEN MAN
Was hoping to get to know you better but now I am no longer caregiving lady you bring oxygen to. Did you notice I was gone? We talked about your chain saw injury, and you seemed like a nice guy.

So I'm scanning, I suppose, in the desperate hope of finding myself, summed up easily, maybe just like this. Redemption is sure to follow.

BLUE EYED GIRL
You were laughing a lot when I saw you at the coffee shop, but I noticed your shoulders were hunched, and your eyes were darting around, like you were staving off an ambush. Lets go sit in the sun somewhere, and I'll teach you how to breath, and remind you over and over that you're safe.

Free Latte

Finally, almost two years after I started, I finished the punch-card for the local coffee shop and was entitled to a free drink. It wasn't that i hadn't purchase more coffee, I just had trouble remembering to dig the card out of my pile of various punch cards, insurance cards, etc.

I have a passion for lattes. Recently I've been foolishly purchasing double soy lattes, at 3.05 per, an almost unforgivable luxury. But, I have a punch card! So I order one--but I'm reasonable.

"What size would you like?" says the girl, she's pretty, but looks tired and a little sad.

"Well I have a punch card, so...medium?"

"Don't you want a large-I mean-it's free."

"Well," I say. "I don't want to be greedy. I mean, I don't want you to judge me."

She laughs. "Get a 20 oz," she says. "I'll form my own opinions."

29 days

I read recently, in one of my various left-leaning, new-agey publications, about a woman who made a concise, conscious effort to give a gift every day for 29 days. It could be a compliment, a cookie, a bracelet--whatever--but it had to be given mindfully, and without the expectation of something in return.

Don't you think that's nice? I do. I decided to try, just the other day, and have found it nearly impossible. You see, there's a selfish, hungry beast inside me that always, ALWAYS expects reciprocation. A kind word in return, maybe, or the promise of a baked good left on my own desk, a roll recently purchased from the neighborhood bakery and sticky with sugar and butter.

Do you think that when I grow up I'll be able to give freely, without the burden of assumption and anticipation? Maybe the nasty beast will decide she's sated, and slink off with her head down, to a shadowy place, to sleep.

The Last of Halloween

Recognition

For whatever reason, I love being recognized. I think it's because there's a part of me that's pretty sure I'm completely ineffective and invisible, so it's reassuring to have someone remember my face. One of my favorite things used to be going to the gym--I'm a little bit of a gym rat in the winter as you probably know--and having everyone at that grimy, dumpy place know me. "How are you?" they'd ask, and really mean it. "How's your knee doing?"

Recently, I made a pretty big shift and switched to a nicer, cleaner, gym. It's close to my house, not very expensive, and offers all sorts of classes. I'm really starting to regret my decision, though, even though I've been going for a few weeks nobody, not even the folks at the front desk, remember me. I'm just another sweaty face, another dripping body, another anxious girl running as hard as she can on the treadmill, wondering why she isn't getting anywhere.

Party Prep

i've always wondered

who bought those horoscope manuals in the grocery store. you know, the ones at the checkout line, they're pretty thick, really, and give you, among other things, your lucky numbers for the next three days, etc. the lady in line in front of me got one today! she was actually very normal looking, and buying normal groceries. i noticed, particularly, that she was purchasing free-range eggs.
i looked at my personal choice: cheap, hormone-fed, cage-grown eggs and felt suitably ashamed.

Happy Halloween!

Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!

Happy Halloween...

Virginia Dusk 2 (Memento Mori)

Virginia Dusk 1

Fall in Missoula, MT

The shortening days in Montana leave me less time for writing then I'd like, but I'm still around. Just, you know, playing frisbee and jumping rope.

photos by Tom Robertson

Modern Archeology

A Challenge

Did you know a coyote will chew his leg off to escape
Grey steel traps?

Well, they do.

I'm sure I could do that, but

Could you?

Lingerie still life shoot for a very talented friend!

Bra by Julie Floersch

http://www.juliefloersch.com/index.html

for Bras for the Cause

http://www.brasforthecause.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=1&Itemid=39

The Spaces We Meet

My sister lives in California; I think of her less than I should
(if you really want to know the truth).
Separated by miles, age, selfishness--we speak infrequently, our visits are few and strange. Do you really want to know?
Three nights ago, we met in sleep. I saw her emerge from my bathroom. Her blood in the toilet. Red between my own legs. Do you really want to?
My lower belly heavy. The forgotten movement of moons and months and blood and truth.

Portraits of my good friend, painter Annika Connor