102.

Amelia wilted down the beach, bored with herself. She needed a change. She was sulky, sludgy. Perhaps, she thought, she should change her hair. She was almost positive her hair hurt. Yes, that would help. She stopped and looked out to sea, shading her eyes against the glitter on the water. Did she see...was that something moving towards her? A black spot on the horizon was steadily flinging itself in Amelia's direction. As it grew closer, she could almost make out...it was! It was a man's bowler hat! It was so sharply black that it looked like a hole in the air. As it sailed closer, straight and true towards Amelia's shapely head, she could feel her future changing. Everything would be different now! She would be dapper, instead of diaphanous. She would be decisive, incisive; she would snap her fingers at people and they would take notice. She would take charge, she would - suddenly there was a flash of golden fur and Amelia got a faceful of damp sand. Henry flung himself in front of her, and snapped the hat out of the air right in front of her. Landing on the sand with a soft plop! he tossed the hat in the air, and tapped it into place on his head with one jaunty paw. Damn that dog! His sartorial greed, his elastic hind legs.

54.

Personal Ad:

Me: Sock. Blue, with hedgehogs printed all over and purple trim around the ankle. Currently living in one-sock accommodations in a dryer lint trap. There's only one of me, but I'm working on growing and becoming a more complete version of myself. I'm in good shape, no holes, and I have nice color and shape.

You: Running shoes slung over telephone wire, any label. I don't care what you look like, but I want to meet someone with a sense of adventure, someone who's not afraid to take a leap, you know? Must have sturdy laces.

I think we could really go places.

42.

This feels too hard today. I left it late, and now I want my remaining energy for other things. This is too hard today, and I wish I didn't have to admit that in order to cross it off.

40.

It's been brightly sunny and bitterly cold the last few days. I stood at my window this morning, watching the frost crystals dissolve as the heat from the radiator reached them, and I suddenly had the most vivid memory. When I was growing up, winter mornings in Vermont were very dark and very cold. My brother and I would jockey for position over the furnace vent, by far the most comfortable place to be while breakfast was cooking. It was on his side of the table, but I was older. When I stood in front of it, my long flannel nightgown would billow out, full of warm air. The thing I remembered just today is that while I stood there, warming my toes, I'd press my fingertips in a circle against the frost crystals in the windowpane to make a flower pattern. I liked the way the tiny resulting trickle of water refrosted in miniscule formations at the edge of the fingerprints. Microscopic worlds of crystals, frosted hands and warm feet and NPR on the radio and the smell of breakfast.

37.

9:07 a.m.: An impossibly tiny boy with a downy cloud of straight black hair walks into the office with great purpose and, holding up his fingers to show me, lisps, "I found this tiny of a bug, but I wouldn't really worry about it. It only had one leg, but it was dead, but I put it out the window." I said, "Good job, buddy." He nodded, and left.

Today was my second day of actual work as a substitute secretary for the school district. I've spent the last two days in the same school, and they have both been nine non-stop hours of work and pandemonium (pandelerium is a better word for it). I'm exhausted, and I haven't eaten properly in two days, and all my parts hurt, but I HAD FUN. That may seem really strange for two days that included a 911 call and the gushingest bloody nose I've ever seen in my entire life and one student injury report and no lunch or bathroom breaks, and I can't even tell you how many phone calls, but it's true. I missed this. This is a completely different animal from the job I had at New Trier, but it bears enough similarity that I felt at home even in a completely new environment. I don't want to do this all day every day anymore, but golly I'm good at it, and it can be so fun.

This was an elementary school, so the kids were much younger than I'm used to and they are hilarious and so sweet. One boy came into the office no less than five times in two days to report on stuff that was in the urinal in the boys' bathroom across the hall. "Um, there's a pencil in the urinal." "Ok, darlin', I'll tell the custodian." "Ok, but actually? I'm a boy."

I'm too tired to blog any further than this tonight, but I've had a pretty great two days. I'm feeling much less nervous about this job, and I'm looking forward to more stories. Maybe next week, after I've caught up on my sleep and bathroom breaks.

34.

I went for a chilly, drizzly run this morning. Running is something I only do about once a week, if that. I'm often at the gym, but I'm not good enough at running yet to make it count in the same way and I haven't put the effort in to get better at it. This morning, though, I woke up remembering that my dad is running his first marathon today. I can't be in Richmond to cheer him on, so I put on my running shoes and hoodie, sent him a good luck text, and went out to run next to him for a while. It felt great, and then it felt hard, and then my hips hurt a lot (which is what happens when you run occasionally, but don't push yourself to improve). But I ran with my dad for a few miles, and I loved it.

33.

I left a library book on the Max yesterday. Specifically, I left Shadows by Robin McKinley on the red line train at Beaverton Transit Center, as it ended its westbound run and switched over to the eastbound. It was about 8:40 in the morning, I was carrying coffee and a tote bag and an umbrella and my phone. I had been reading the book at the beginning of my commute, but then set it aside to do something else, thinking I'd get back to it before I arrived. It was wedged between my left leg and the wall. When the train got to Beaverton TC (which always comes before I'm expecting it, and I have to switch there for the blue line), I got up with my coffee and tote bag and umbrella and phone, and walked off without the library book.

I'm describing this in excruciating detail in order that I might feel every little grain of salt I'm rubbing into my own wound. I left a library book on a train. The ignominy of this is large. Big ignominy.

Oh, I've forgotten a detail that makes it even worse. It wasn't even my library book. It was a loaner from a friend who finished it early and knew I had it on my hold list.

Bignominy.

The worst part, of course, is that I was only about a third of the way through, and it was zipping right along and I was loving it, and now I can't read it until I can get another copy, or until I spend $9 and change on a Kindle edition. Which I'm not going to do, because, well, I'm not. Robin McKinley's great with the vocabulary and the vivid and unexpected characters who are chock full of normal human details and feelings in the midst of their epic magic thing. But not even to punish myself will I spend $9 on the Kindle edition. Having to wait for another copy to roll up the library hold list is punishment enough.

But I can't stop wondering what's happening to this book in the meantime. It was pointed towards the airport when I left it. Did someone find it and think it looked interesting and take it somewhere fun? Did somebody pick it up and return it in a library drop box (this is Portland, I'd bet money there's one of those at the airport)? Is it still sitting on the train? Was it there at the end of the day, and did the driver find it during a final sweep, and drop it in lost and found where it will lie unread forever and its soul will slowly die? Did a kid find it and stash it in her backpack, where it will sit for the next eight months, in a bath of gum wrappers and nail polish and nickels and pens until she finds it at the very end of summer vacation and reads it and falls in love and can't stop telling all her friends about it and they're all totally over it and wish she'd shut up about the main character who loves dogs just exactly as much as she loves dogs and how she doesn't really like her stepfather either and did you guys know that origami figures can ward off evil?

I hope that one's the one. I'll happily pay to replace the book that never returned if that's the one.

32.

"Your pockets are behind you," said my niece, shoving her hands into my jeans and digging around. And then she pulled my pants right down.

31.

Today's post is going to be a bit of a cheat, as it happened several months ago. I should have written it when it happened, but I was in the grip of no-blogging and I never did it. The story's too good to forget, though, so I'm telling it now.

It was a sweltering August day, and I was on my way home on a standing-room-only bus on a busy Portland street. It was packed, and every stop we passed had at least one person waiting to board, and nobody got off. When we hit Division, there was a group of people waiting, including a man pushing a woman in a wheelchair. Everyone on the bus performed that physics-defying shuffle and compressed themselves into smaller air space under each other's armpits, and we cleared the handicap section up front. They got on the bus, the man keeping up a friendly, cheerful banter with the bus driver while he folded up the seat and cleared a path and engaged the little locking mechanism and made sure she was comfortable; we went on our way.

Two decades on public transportation have given me a sort of noise filter that allows me to tune out most of what goes on around me while I'm commuting. I keep half an ear open for aggressive tone, because sometimes situations develop and you want to know where it's going before it gets there. But I don't actively pay attention to conversations around me. I gradually became aware that the woman in the wheelchair and the man with her had started bickering. Something about the groceries and cooking and who knows what else. They got louder and louder and suddenly at the next stop, he was hovering at the front exit and yelling, "Is this what you want? You want me to leave?" And he got off the bus. Which is not that weird. Couple fighting on the bus, at least one episode per week.

But then. The woman in the wheelchair stood up and said, "Seriously? Seriously? Take your damn chair!" And she got off, too, AND LEFT THE WHEELCHAIR ON THE BUS.

There are approximately eleventy billion sweating people on this bus, and we're all just staring with our mouths hanging open as the bus driver bursts into flames and starts screaming, "You all are CRAZY. Don't EVER get on my bus again!" The man, by now, is banging on the window and demanding to have his wheelchair back. The woman is laughing and crossing the street against the traffic light, leaving him behind. The bus driver has grown to three times normal human size and is roaring, "The hell with you, you can pick it up at the next stop!" He throws the break and we're off again, across the intersection. The man is now running to catch up with us so he can claim the chair at the next stop, and the woman is running behind him, throwing groceries at him as she goes. The rest of us are in danger of tipping the bus over, because we're all craning our necks to see out one side so we don't miss anything. Loaf of bread, zing! Head of lettuce, splat!

The bus comes up to the next stop, and the driver gets up, opens the door and addresses the crowd waiting to board: "NOBODY MOVE." He folds up the wheelchair, pitches it out on the sidewalk just as the man comes panting up and grabs it by the handle. The bus driver stood back, mopped his brow, and with an elegant sweep of his arm to indicate boarding, says, "Jerry Springer Bus, folks, all aboard. Drinks upstairs in the VIP if you're 21." He sat back down in the driver's seat and said, "Damn. Only on 82nd Avenue." And then we went on our way.

The thing about this is that it was so absurd that it made a miserable situation feel almost festive. The bus stayed packed, we were all still sweating and cramped and trying to fit 8 more people on at every stop. But shared absurdity is a wonderful thing, and the mood on that bus was pure joy. Even people getting on who had no idea what had happened were talking and laughing and making room for each other. And the rest of us got a pretty good story.

The madding crowd, people. It's the thing.

30.

Herman took a deep breath, looked into his beloved's eyes, and swallowed the dragonfly. "It is between us now," he said.

29.

The heavy, faded eyelids of an empty house droop over clouding windows. Her bones shift and softly splinter in fog-damp air. Her many-chambered heart whistles in a salty wind, and she folds herself down, plane by plane, into the heath.

day 28.

I'm taking lessons in proper weekending. My blogging is short, my instruction is sweet.

day 27.

The library of my childhood was across the field from my elementary school. I'd sometimes go there after school to wait for my mother to pick me up; when I picture it now, it's from the perspective of my height at about 7 years old. I spent long hours there all through my childhood and well into my teens, but that's the way I remember it: from low to the ground. 

It was closed on Mondays, but the back door lock wasn't very secure and if you wiggled it just right, it would open. I know this because I once got permission to go during lunch recess, only to find it closed; but I wanted so badly to be in the quiet library, with its smell of floor polish and glue and old, dry paper. So I jimmied the door open, and let myself in and wandered around in the midday dim. I sat on the floor cushions in the children's section, right across from the circulation desk, and read my favorite books, and then I went back across the field to school. I did this more than once, including creeping into the basement where the librarian kept tables full of discarded books, which you could take for free. I was bold that time, and turned the lights on so I could see what I was taking. I must have been considerably older by then, but I don't remember how old. 

I loved that library. I'd pay good money for someone to bottle the scent. I'm sure the back door lock is much better now, but if I'm ever there again I'll give it a try just in case.

day 26.

The last 36 hours have been something of an impromptu social experiment for me. At about 7:30 yesterday morning, my phone lost internet capability. After a couple of calls to T-Mobile, it was determined that there was nothing wrong with my phone or account or settings, but there was a data tower out somewhere. We had a torrential storm here yesterday morning, and maybe something got knocked awry. Who knows. T-Mobile put in a service ticket and said worst case scenario was about three days without internet service, if someone had to actually climb the tower and knock things about with physical tools. Like in olden times. I said ok, thanks for your help.

Then I proceeded to spend the next 36 hours learning all about how much of my life is tied to being able to access the internet on my phone. Hint: ALL OF IT. I could still send text messages, and the phone itself was working fine. But nothing else. So while I was out of my apartment, no Twitter, no email, no Etsy shop maintenance, no Instagram, no Google everything ever, no Trimet to figure out where I am or where I need to go. I've only had a smartphone for just under two years, but in those two years, I handed this chunk of hardware the keys to my entire existence.

It turned out to be pretty good timing for a disconnect. Yesterday was a hellishly busy day, in which everything went wrong. Today was my all-day training for the new job, and it was information overload times infinity. While it was awkward to have to gather all my information for the day at home before I left - planning how to get where I was going, and what I might need to deal with during the day, and what I'd need to pick up on the way home - both yesterday and today worked better without the added distraction of knowing I could get online at any time. I keep most of my push notifications and alerts turned off, because I don't like the phone poking me all day, but there's always the background awareness of the internet and the quite rich and enjoyable life I live in there. There's always the opportunity and/or temptation to leave the room in which I am physically sitting, and go there instead. Mostly I have a pretty good grip on when that's appropriate or useful for me, and when I'm using it to avoid something. But yesterday and today were so overwhelming from a focus and information standpoint that having the option forcibly removed turned out to be a good thing. My internet access came back on this evening as I was getting off the train on my way home. Which basically felt like the world of technology telling me, "Ok, you did your stuff, and now you can be trusted with this again." (The future is judgy.)

It also feels like this was a good trial run for adjusting to a new way of doing things. My new job is as a substitute secretary in Portland Public Schools. It's going to be hectic beyond description. When I'm on a job, I'm not going to have time to check email, or update Etsy, or be on Twitter. Nor will I have the freedom to do those things, under the school terms of use policies. If I get a lunch break (by no means guaranteed on any given day), I might get the chance to check in on things. But I'll be offline a lot more than I'm used to, and I'm going to need to change how I do some things. I pride myself on responding to customers really quickly, either on Twitter or by email, and I'm not going to be able to do that for a while. It's going to be an adjustment, definitely. I might find that it doesn't work for me, and isn't in my best interests. But for now, I'm looking forward to the work, and it didn't hurt to have this day and a half trial run.

[That being said, I was so happy when it came back and all my notifications dinged at once. Because I may need to unplug every once in a while, but damn I love it in here.]

day 25.

Passing by Jackpot Records this afternoon, I heard the smoky, lightfingered strains of Ray Charles singing "Fever" floating out the door. Several men stood outside, snapping their fingers and smoking. Four blocks further east, people passing me on the sidewalk were still humming and whistling: "Fever when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight." At home, on the couch with my glass of wine, I have it on repeat.

Infectious.

day 23.

I spent most of today making sterling ballpins and new jewelry. For the last several months, I've been rationing my metal supplies and not making things unless I was certain they would sell. Today I threw caution to the wind and made whatever occurred to me. It has probably resulted in some lunacy, but it felt great, I have more ideas now than when I started, and I've had a really good day. When can I do it again?

day 22.

The smell of fresh Play-Doh is a powerful creative stimulant.

day 21.

Last week I was taking some product photographs, and I was struck by the relationship between that process and the process of making something. It's not a new idea for me, but it's been some time since I experienced it so vividly. 

I take clear, attractive photographs of my own products, but I'm not a photographer either by training or by instinct. My framing is always lacking in finesse; I have no understanding of technique or the finer mechanics of cameras and lighting. All the same, when I'm photographing my own work, something happens in the act of looking at it through that remove. I see it with different eyes than the ones I use when I'm making it. It often happens that I don't know what to name a design until I'm looking at it through the camera. I need that final step to make it gel into itself, in a way. The thing that happened last week is a less frequent occurrence, but an even more useful one. The piece I was photographing looked right when I made it. The colors were right, it balanced properly, the flow of it looked attractive to me. But when I looked at it through the camera, and took a couple of pictures, it was plainly wrong. The lines of it were wrong. It wasn't hanging differently, it was in the same position it had been when I finished it and looked at it and judged it to be good. But the eye of the camera saw it cleanly, and there was something wrong with it. I took it apart and redid it, and the second time it came out right. 

I don't know if that's something to do with my inexpertise with a camera - it might be that my maker's soul doesn't enter into the process with the camera, so what I see with it is more empirical than what I see when I'm making something. Or it might be that the remove of the camera itself - an object between me and what I made - is distance enough to let me finish making something. It doesn't really matter, but I know that the camera is a check, an editor that I need. It's my partner in the story of what I make.

day 20.

The receipt said "Your cashier was Laura." The man stops in the act of unpacking the bag of groceries, arrested by the anomaly of the past tense. He shifts the carton of eggs to his other hand, reaches absentmindedly for the bag of tomatoes. "Was Laura." Is she still Laura now that he's home, the paper bag torn at the top, the condensation from the bottle of milk starting to soften one corner?

He's arrested by a sudden vision of her identity existing only in transaction. His cashier was Laura. Maybe by now she's Tiffany, who is only in evidence for the four minutes it takes to ring up and package a roasted chicken, a box of bandaids, two bottles of wine, a cantaloupe, and a package of ballpoint pens. Before that, someone else's Marigold handled four pounds of roasting potatoes, a bar of baking chocolate, a jar of peanut butter, a package of sponges, a bottle of kitchen cleaner, and a box of tampons.

He thinks about Louisa, logging out of the register and eating her lunch in the breakroom: a Tupperware container of cold leftover spaghetti, carrot sticks and a Diet Coke. He thinks Louisa reads half a comic book, puts it back in her backpack, washes her hands.

Stephanie signs back into the register and sells a bag of balloons, paper streamers in pink, green and yellow, a birthday card, a box of cake mix, a tin of sprinkles and a pound of butter. The carton of eggs grows heavy on his arm, and he notices that one of the tomatoes is about to roll out of the bag. He opens the refrigerator and finishes putting his Laura groceries away.

day 19.

When I was a wee girl, I used to go and read in the little barn where the rabbits had their hutch. I'm the oldest of four children, and I liked to go there to be by myself. I'd sit by the windows, where there was a cracked pane in the bottom right section, and listen to the rabbits doing their quiet whuffling. I liked the smell of the hay, and the way the dust made the light yellow, and the sense of company without talking.