bravissimi!

2012-02-20T23:32:00.000-08:00

a long weekend: sleeping until 10, brunch, john cage, horse hair, rain, blankets, movies, coffee, legos, strippers, a hangover, a glass of wine, a game of thrones, candy, letters, envelopes, bad TV, a walk, a dusty old typewriter, a conversation with an old friend, a long-overdue trip to the bank / mall / food store / library, a half-zipped riding boot, clean breeches, mud, dirt, seeds, weeds.

at the garden paul, in the plot next to mine, constructs a cold frame. I am surprised to see anyone there. my brussels sprouts have totally sprouted; the buds have opened into tiny mini cabbages. all the work to grow them and I let them go all winter. I walk over and call, "I guess it's about that time!" and paul says, "it is not! it is too damn early! why is it so warm outside?" and he has the truth of it, actually, but just the same, the peas have to go in soon.

when I write my letters in the morning, I experience a moment of panic at night. and then relief, such relief.

my hair is just about long enough for a single ponytail, for the first time in more than three years. and I still don't know: grow or cut. I just don't know.

on my computer there's a file that contains a list of every person I've ever kissed. romantically, I mean. I wrote them down about five years ago, when it occurred to me that someday I might not be able to remember. I keep it current. there's no real use for this kind of information but forgetting is maybe the thing I fear most in life.

the number of people on the list surprises me. whether it's because it's small or big, I honestly don't know.

.

I always stay up too late.

mostly noise

2012-02-18T18:34:00.000-08:00

"The first question I ask myself when something doesn't seem to be beautiful is, why do I think it's not beautiful? And very shortly you discover that there is no reason." -- John Cage

Last night, my good friend Rob, the opera's associate music director/chorusmaster/principal coach/assistant conductor (yes, all of those things), performed in a concert of John Cage music, in celebration of the composer's 100th birthday. I went because he is dear to me and I wanted to support him; otherwise, I was not that into the idea of a whole night of weirdly plonky, random music. Or so I thought.

The performance was equal parts concert and art installation; performances occurred simultaneously throughout the building for the duration of the three-hour event. The building itself was lovely, an old warehouse space: white walls, old wood floors, mostly darkened save for some wall lighting and the glow of stand lights. The space, unheated, was chilly; colder in the adjoining garage, where Rob sang. At the entrance, twelve record players were set up and playing, surrounded by piles of extra records; the piece, 33 1/3, is designed to be controlled by the audience, who can change the records or manipulate the machines at will -- or just let them play. They all blare simultaneously, and the music selection is irrelevant.

The first true performance of the evening -- but that's not the right way to say it, really, since 33 1/3 is a performance too... the first staged performance? the first live performance? I don't even know -- was Credo in Us, one of Cage's early works, which calls for four musicians playing prepared piano, tin cans, hand buzzers, tom toms, and a radio and phonograph. The piece is rhythmic and driving, and frankly, really cool; the radio and phonograph both play whatever the performers choose, though Cage suggested perhaps Dvorak, Sibelius, Shostakovich, or Beethoven. Last night the performance included snippets of Turandot. I watched the page turner for the piece and thought, "Now there is a job I would not want; by comparison, Mussorgsky is a breeze."

In the adjoining garage space, chairs were set up in a loose elongated oval ("It's whale-shaped!" Rob said), facing each other. Litany for the Whale is antiphonal, sung by two baritones, plainchant. The singers sing the sounds of W-H-A-L-E. The space was very live; when the singing began I was surprised for a moment, mistakenly thinking it was amplified. Call and response, over and over. So very different from the rhythmic Credo, so quiet. I sat and watched the other people listening, watched them settle into understanding what the piece was doing; heard the creaking of chairs; watched the tenor of the room change. In the row facing me, most of the people had their eyes closed. One man had pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. A hipster had a bemused smile on his face. A petite woman with long, unruly curls sat tensely, as if maybe she thought she should have gone upstairs to see another work instead. The whalesong went on for twenty five minutes. I can still hear it in my mind.

I thought Cage to be sort of a joke, which is maybe how you perceive him when you learn about him as a 19-year-old in a music history course you are obligated to take in order to receive your degree. I feel sorry for that now. Sometimes it seems my whole life is about learning to open my eyes. You know, it's funny: I am that crazy person in the theater who gets a nervous twitch whenever there is any ambient noise in performance. I hate when people rustle their programs too much, or wear crinkly coats, or have jangly bracelets, or if there is too much coughing or whispering. It's not necessarily that I think the music is sacrosanct; it's more that I hate being pulled out of the experience of listening, and I suppose my ability to hone in on the music is maybe kind of weak if it can be derailed by the sound of a raincoat, but whatever. Simultaneously, I love outdoor concerts -- particularly classical music concerts -- because there is no real sanctity to the sound at all, by virtue of the environment itself. They are not austere. People come and go, they talk, they eat sandwiches and lay on blankets, there are trucks going by. It's just music. I like that. I thought a lot last night about the sacredness or lack thereof in performance, whether there is some music that you should hold sacred and some you shouldn't; whether we take it all too seriously. Not that Cage didn't take it seriously -- indeed, he took it very seriously. But if he had been in that NY Phil performance of Mahler a few weeks ago, he probably would have delighted at that errant, riot-inducing cell phone ring. The thing about attending a performance of Cage's music is that you pretty much can't get it wrong. You can't clap at the wrong time or make too much noise, or too little; you don't have to worry about sirens going by or whether the space is too live. In one absolutely lovely moment, we were standing watching the performance of Fourteen, for various instruments and piano, with the piano strings being bowed using a piece of fishing line. The instrumentalists each have aleatoric passages to play, with the only directive being to play them quietly and to almost never drown out the sound of the piano. As the musicians played, from far behind us, on the other end of the space, Carlos Kalmar, the Oregon Symphony's music director, was performing Lecture on Nothing, which is just that -- a lecture. He had been reading out loud at the desk for over an hour, and finally, not long after Fourteen started, he fell to silence. There was applause from those people still seated nearby. Some of us standing on the opposite end of the room clapped as well. The music on our end continued. Four or five minutes later, Carlos began talking again; the silence had been scripted into the lecture. I grinned. Above the haunting sound of the bowed piano, Carlos's voice, his accent a hard-to-imitate combination of Argentinian and Austrian, floated; the lecture talked about making a corporation called 'Happiness, Inc.,' how everyone who joined would be president; how all you needed to do to join was to smash 100 records; how in Texas there was a woman who told him there was no music there, because in Texas they had recordings, and how recordings were the death of music. All of this overhead, in his accent, mixing with the music. Next to me my friend Bob said, "At any moment I feel like he may launch into Green Eggs and Ham." It was so wonderful.

There was Postcard from Heaven, a piece for 1-20 harps. In this case, I think I counted fourteen, though it might have been fifteen, but at any rate FOURTEEN HARPS. All in a circle, all in one room, all of them simultaneously playing a series of ragas, first quietly and then louder, punctuated by the sounds of hard objects against the sound pegs, by rapid swipes and plucks, and then eventually dwindling to the sound of all the harpists rubbing the sheet music itself onto the strings. The sound of fourteen harps, rather than being lovely, instead brought to mind the picture of a maniacal doll coming, perhaps, to eat you with bared teeth at any moment.

While downstairs there was a second performance of Credo (several of the works were performed multiple times, including Litany for the Whale), upstairs two musicians were performing Inlets, a piece for four conch shells and the sound of fire. There were two microphones, two speakers, a table with four shells, and a basin of water. The musicians filled the shells and tipped them slowly into the basin. Drip drip drip. Inlets was inspired by the weather of the Pacific Northwest, from Cage's time in Seattle. Drip drip drip. It was surprisingly lovely.

And lastly, 4'33". At the start of the night I sat in the space and wrote my letter for the day, and in it I said, "I can't decide whether to stay for 4'33". On the one hand, when do you ever get to experience a performance of it? On the other hand, do I really need to hang around for 2 1/2 hours to watch four and a half minutes of staged silence?" Of course, transformed by the rest of the evening, I was eager to stay. A string quartet and a pianist set up; the first violin had a timer on her phone. The room grew quiet, almost reverent. On cue, the musicians opened their scores. I wondered if anyone in the audience would deliberately make noise in an effort to insert themselves into the piece (a thing I considered, to be frank), but no one did; we all stood very transfixed, listening to the sounds in the next room of people's footsteps, the clinking of an occasional dish, the murmur of speech; the sounds which, of course, are the piece itself. At the appointed time, the musicians turned to the second movement. I was filled with a wild, giddy delight. Around me, everyone was watching the musicians. When they finally closed their music, it came as a surprise; it was impossible to believe four and a half minutes had passed. The violinist held up her timer to show us. We all sort of shook ourselves off, the way you do after you've just been crying during a movie, and disbanded. I came over to the executive director, who subs in our violin section sometimes, and I hugged her twice. "I don't think I have ever attended a better performance," I said, and that is the truth. I cannot even believe it.

The full set list, or what I can remember of it:
33 1/3
Credo in Us
Litany for the Whale
Lecture on Nothing
Muoyce
Apartment House 1776
Music for Marcel Duchamp
Inlets
Fourteen
Postcard From Heaven
4'33"

Afterwards the three of us had beers at the strip club half a block down the street. Because that's how we roll.

from Steinbeck: A Life in Letters

2012-02-14T08:04:00.000-08:00

New York
November 10, 1958

Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First—if you are in love—that’s a good thing—that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.

Second—There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you—of kindness and consideration and respect—not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply—of course it isn’t puppy love.

But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it—and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

If you love someone—there is no possible harm in saying so—only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another—but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens—The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,
Fa

stall rest

2012-02-13T18:45:00.000-08:00

on saturday, I made a blanket fort. (actually, I made it friday night so that I could get out of bed on saturday and crawl into it without having to do a thing).

pictures don't really do it justice; I couldn't capture all of it from the inside.

bed sheets were pinned to the ceiling; the fort had its own lighting.

all a blanket fort really needs is blankets, which apparently are the thing I own the most of out of anything? like, I have an almost neverending supply of blankets. not all of them are even pictured here. the walls of the fort were constructed with four sheets; the chaise made the back wall of the fort and my two kitchen barstools the supporting walls. and then, of course, a whole heap of them on the floor. plus all my pillows.

from the blanket fort I ate breakfast and drank coffee; I watched the SU/UConn game; I read my book; I made envelopes for letters, sealed everything up, and drafted labels. I emerged to make lunch and to type up letter #11 on my typewriter. in the afternoon I went on a run, did my PT, took a shower. then we closed butterfly; I cried through the whole final scene from the wings.

on sunday I awoke way earlier than any girl should on her day off to go run a 5K I had received a comp entry to in exchange for writing a review. I threw on my pink shirt (it was a valentine run) and for the first time in three years, pulled my hair into a single ponytail. I parked at the opera and ran across the bridge to the start line, donned my race bib, and stood near the front of the pack, hoping to place.

just about two miles into the race, cruising along at 7:10s, something in my left calf gave out with a sickening pop. immediate pain flowered along my leg, and I ground to a halt on the side of the course. I could barely walk; I stopped and held on to a light pole and tried to move my foot, to stretch it, but the pain was too great so instead I just hobbled forward, all plans to finish the race entirely erased. I was near the tram station, on the other side of the river from my car, and nearly two miles away. as I hobbled, no one -- no racers, no volunteers -- asked me if I was okay, even though I was very clearly walking with great difficulty and pain. I felt despondent, cold and miserable. I took off my race bib and crumpled it into my hand, so that nobody would know I had been broken by a 5K. I threw it into the trash at the first opportunity.

I retraced the race course, at first crossing paths with the last cluster of walkers with strollers, and finally alone. a girl out on her own recreational run looked concerned as she approached, and stopped. 'you ok?' she said, and I gulped and tried not to cry. I wasn't, of course, but there wasn't much she could do for me -- no car, no phone -- so I said, "thank you so much, I'm okay," and after looking searchingly at me for a second, she nodded and went on her way. I limped off up the path, crossing the race course at one point, and began the slow walk over the bridge. halfway across the river, a cyclist -- who presumably had already passed me by and then had doubled back -- came up and said, "...do you need a ride? you look like you're freezing and in a lot of pain." he had an old olive green steel framed bike with a full rack on the back. I looked at him, and at the bike, and nodded. yes, I wanted a ride. I pointed down the river. "I'm just there, past the museum. would you really?" so I straddled his rear tire, sitting flat on his bike rack, and tried to center my weight and pray that he was a balanced enough rider to keep us both from crashing. we cruised down the path, passing the occasional runner, and I smiled a little as I thought of what we must look like, this lumberjack-y hipster guy with this little spandex-clad runner on the back of his bike. he dropped me at the parking lot and I thanked him profusely. "I really felt like I would never get here," I said, and then he went on his way.

in the middle of my drive home, a friend called. "were you just at that intersection?" she asked, and yes, I had been. "you just passed me!" she said, and then I burst into tears, explaining what had happened. ten minutes after I walked into my apartment she was behind me, ringing the bell and bringing me a coffee and pastry. when she left, I dragged the chaise into the blanket fort (don't ask me how; I'm not sure) and sunk into it. a friend called to check in on me and on the phone with him I burst into tears a second time, so betrayed by my body, so frustrated at chronic injury, so tired of being broken.

although I had a few movies, my book, and crappy sunday tv, I decided that if I was going to be holed up my house all day, I'd buy myself a get well present. I drove to the store and bought the new zelda game, out since christmas. when I came home and opened it, fresh from its packaging, I was horror-struck to realize there was no game disc inside. they're never going to believe me, I thought, as I got back in the car AGAIN to hobble my way through another parking lot. I had to talk to three different employees, and it was only when I nearly burst into tears -- seriously -- that they decided I really wasn't out to swindle them, and made the exchange.

that was my sunday: my leg on ice, wrapped in a tight ace bandage and propped on four pillows; zelda on the TV. eating as many chocolate-cherry cookies as is humanly possible from the stash given to me by one of our violists, who makes, I'm pretty sure, the best cookies on earth. friends texted and called. I felt very sorry for myself, but it was also okay. on the advice of one close friend I took an obscene number of ibuprofen tablets -- which helped tremendously -- then nearly laughed out loud on the phone with the advice nurse when she said, "take whatever you'd usually take for the pain, but do not exceed the recommended dose." I had already exceeded the recommended dose for the whole day in one long swallow.

it remains to be seen what will happen with my leg. I see the PT on wednesday. for now, I am trying to forget that I am a runner at all, so tired am I of injury, so tired of waiting on the sidelines. all day today, the leg has been wrapped and propped up (on the cases of beer underneath my desk. yes, really). running? what is running? if I can forget it, it no longer has to be a thing that I miss.

tag!

2012-02-07T23:02:00.000-08:00

So, my friend Heather tagged me in a litle blog game thing, and because a) I want Heather to be my BFF and b) I love talking about myself, here it is! Also I just want to remind you that Heather made me the most fucking awesome tiger pillow ever, so I owe her for life.

Here are the rules:
1. Post these rules
2. You must post 11 random things about yourself
3. Answer the questions set for you in their post
4. Are jokes about "there is no Fight Club" still funny?

11 random things about yourself:
Okay, first, I probably don't have 11 random things left about myself that you haven't already learned from the past three years on this blog. But I'll try.

1. A big chunk of my identity is tied to my glasses. I used to be almost cripplingly self-conscious about being seen without them. This is partially because I couldn't get contacts until I was in my twenties, and I've had glasses since I was seven. I still believe that people won't recognize me without glasses on my face. An eye doctor once commented that I would be a great candidate for Lasik, and I said, "no way -- my glasses are part of who I am." "You could wear non-prescription ones as an accessory," he said. No.

2. I used to want to be a foot model.

3. My hair is curly. Somehow the people I know really well, probably by virtue of having had short hair for so long, and because I often used to straighten it when it was long, are consistently surprised by this fact.

4. I love surprises, pretty much in any form. I like when people try to surprise me (with the exception of, like, jumping out from behind my living room curtains -- I don't like to be startled. but who does? also, I don't have living room curtains). I also like when people themselves are surprising; I love discovering that people have a hidden history, or a special, unknown talent, or a love of something I never would have guessed. this is tied closely to my love of secrets. I love to have secrets of my own, and in fact most of the big decisions of my life I have made without telling a soul: applying for my job at the opera, cutting off all my hair (from long to short; I had to tell everyone before I shaved it), getting a tattoo. my reasons for keeping such secrets are complex.

5. But maybe one of the biggest reasons I like surprises and secrets so much is that my entire life revolves around my profound love of stories and storytelling. Frankly, almost everything I do, think, say, etc. comes back to wanting to have stories, wanting to tell stories, wanting to be a part of a story. When I'm alone, I talk all the time -- in the car, at the barn, in my kitchen at home. What am I doing? Narrating. That is not even a little bit a joke. In fact, I think it's why I often have preferred solitude to company. You have to be good company; otherwise you're just keeping me from telling myself a story.

When I was a child I was obsessed with hearing the great tales my mom had of getting in trouble as a teen, of all the crazy things she and her friends used to do. I see this exact impulse in my kid sister, now fourteen, who laments that she doesn't have any good stories. My mom and I just tell her, give it time. You will.

6. Also, the reason I have kept many important moments in my life a secret is because I deeply and profoundly hate being told what to do. This isn't the same as hating being given direction or being asked to do something -- if I'm at work and somebody says, "I need you to do this," well, I don't have a problem with that at all. But I deeply dislike when my personal decisions are judged, or when someone treats me as if they know better than I do what I should do in a given situation. This is why, for example, when I was planning on running Eugene last year, I never once told Scott what my goal time was: I knew he would either tell me I couldn't hit it, or tell me all the ways I should be training differently to achieve it. Secrets keep my sacred things safe. Some things must be ours alone. Once I'd chopped off all my hair, nobody could say, "You shouldn't cut your beautiful long curls!" anymore. Which they did ALL THE FUCKING TIME if I ever brought it up in conversation.

7. #6 is probably my worst personality trait -- it essentially boils down to "cannot take criticism" -- but I've discovered that the people who mean the most to me in this world intuitively understand and know how to manage it. My mother never ever ever tells me her opinion about my life, sometimes not even if I ask. But when, on those incredibly rare occasions, she does? I listen. Because I know it is THAT important to her. My college clarinet professor figured out early on that the best way to get me to play some piece he wanted me to play was to say, "You know, I've never had anybody in the studio try this one before."

8. The benefit to my absolute intolerance of know-it-alls (this is how I think of it) is that I will always give you my opinion about something if I think you are awesome -- your hair looks beautiful, that dress is perfect on you, you really rocked that performance -- and I will almost never give it to you unsolicited if I disagree with your choices. I tend to think that people do things in their own way, in their own time and pace, and for reasons that we, on the outside, largely don't know.

I do make exceptions: when my best friend moved in with her boyfriend, she expressed some uncertainty, and I wasn't convinced it was the right decision. "Tell me just once that you really and truly love him," I said, "and I will never, ever say another word about it again." She wrote me a long email about all the things he did for her that she loved, and that was that. Whether or not I agreed with her choices after that was not the point. I trusted her judgment, and I had said my peace. We each knew where the other stood. We all learn our life lessons at our own paces, and no faster. We learn by bumping into our limits. Some of us can't just be told where the lines are and call it good. In my opinion, part of having compassion for our people is understanding this about them. This is ultimately the compassion I want my people to have for me.

9. God, this shit got long-winded. I can wiggle my ears.

10. And I can wiggle my nose like a rabbit, but I can't flare my nostrils.

11. I've never seen a single James Bond movie. I KNOW, OKAY. I know.

What is your #1 best memory – the one that will always make you smile?
The day I arrived to the beach about five years ago. I wrote about it here.

If you could do anything (career-wise), and money was no object, what would that be?
I'd be a spy. Or a sculptor. Or a groom at Churchill Downs.

What is the most awesome place you’ve ever visited?
In Buffalo, NY, there is a trail through the woods which runs parallel to a small tributary. You follow it for a mile or two, and then you come to a modest-looking waterfall. You wade through the water up to the foot of the waterfall, and there, nestled in the rock, in the middle of the water, is a flame. A FLAME! pure magic.

What is your go-to comfort food?
Fried eggs. Or grilled cheese & tomato soup. It has to be shitty American cheese. God, I can't remember the last time I had a grilled cheese.

What is your guilty pleasure (that you’re willing to admit to in a public forum?)
Saturday morning cartoons. Actually, kids' TV and movies in general. Also: CANDY. But you all know that.

Favorite way to relieve stress?
Oh god, running. Why do you think I was so insufferable last year?

Favorite book?
I'm really bad at favorites. I can't ever pick just one. Lolita, A Death in the Family, Angle of Repose, The Stone Diaries.

Favorite movie?
This is cliché, but I've watched Amelie so many times I almost have it memorized. It was my comfort movie back in college, when I'd just broken up with my very serious college boyfriend and moved into my first solo apartment. I watched it every single night to cheer myself up. I've seen the first half hour probably 100 times (and the last part of the movie probably only 20 times -- I used to fall asleep to it).

What are you good at that hardly ever gets recognized? (example, are you a masterful karaoke singer? do you play a mean harmonica? is your hidden talent hopscotch?)
I can jumprope like a motherfucker.

What did your 10-year-old self want to be when you grew up? Do you still want that? (Are you that?)
Things I wanted to be that I don't want to be anymore: A lawyer (because I liked to argue), first female president.

Things I wanted to be that I still want to be/am, in a way: a writer, a jockey.

What's holding you back?
Debt and lack of time. That's pretty much it, actually.

Fight Club: nope.

2012-02-03T22:30:00.000-08:00

song: hey jude on repeat, constantly, still. for a lot of reasons but largely because you cannot sing along to hey jude and feel sad, you cannot

time-consuming thing that isn't opera: physical therapy exercises. two weeks ago my PT, chris, gave me four glute/hip exercises and two stretches. last week he was like, "now you WORK," so I am doing 80 reps of those exercises, plus 40 reps of another glute exercise, plus two impossible exercises where I have to isolate just one muscle with my mind and retrain it to obey me on command. plus a quad stretch and a crazy balance that looks like it would be easy but I find next to impossible. also, back stretches.

plus, chris told me, you should start running more. I could have kissed him on the mouth.

internet diversion: ogling modern dresses on modcloth and vintage ones at xtabay. this dress at xtabay makes me feel hurty inside from wanting, but I blew my dress budget for the year on my gala dress. perhaps the shop owner would accept a trade-in.

book: game of thrones, endlessly endlessly. I finished a clash of kings and started ... whatever the hell the next one is called? I was going to take a break from them, but I found this kindle lending loophole where if you don't turn on your wifi, they can't take back the book you got out from the library. and the book I got was game of thrones, books 1-4. so, I'm committed for awhile. can't turn the wifi on my kindle back on for another, oh, 1800 pages.

outfit: anything involving red shoes

guilty pleasure: eating one of every kind of snack in the production office during shows.

hair: curly and windblown, styled by running

pet peeve/blessing: everyone saying "it's spring!" even though it is february 3. but you know, it feels devastatingly spring-like right now.

project: writing a letter a day all month. which reminds me, OH CRAP MY LETTER

barn moment: leaning up against Cookie, my head resting on the top of her shoulder, one arm wrapped around her neck, as she bends to eat her hay.

dream: I've come down with a virus bad enough to be hospitalized, where I have been for two weeks. I don't feel sick, just tired: so tired I fall asleep on monday and wake again on thursday. I try to get things accomplished but I am weighed down by ponderous fatigue; over and over again I tell people, "I've been sleeping for days."

conundrum: being so ready for time off, but finding when I have a free expanse of hours that I am so restless from going that I don't know how to sit still.

people: you know who you are.

.

seriously, you guys. that dress.

2012-01-27T00:36:00.000-08:00

lately: juggling the opera and the symphony. arriving early to rehearsal at the opera, setting out page turn copies, tape, scissors, earplugs. making coffee. pacing back and forth through the room, nervous. greeting the early arrivals. then: saying a silent benediction over them all, and leaving. at the symphony, I get help focusing the projector, and then we are running haydn. in comparison to opera, symphony supertext is easy. I sightread. staff approach and thank me for being there; someone, unbidden, brings me a bottle of water. I imagine this is what it's like to feel like an expert at something -- only a mild tinge of nervousness, and then the show. reading the music along with the performance, pressing the button, feeling that tiny frisson of satisfaction when the title slide goes to black at the same instant as the final downbeat. as I leave the first performance, I am thanked profusely and told we will definitely call you again, which feels delightful. I pretend for a moment that I am one of the performers -- of course, I am, in a way -- and walk out into the night air among the flutists and horn players, violinists and singers.

butterfly rehearsal is very warm; the room is packed with people. our pinkerton looks just like will ferrell. our conductor, anne, is passionate and very exacting, and I remember how much I loved her during orphée. the percussionists play the giant gongs. having missed the initial run of the piece, there's nothing scary left for me to worry about, so I mark corrections into the next opera's orchestra parts, shaking the entire table as I erase.

lately: friends. between rehearsals, we order a giant pizza and, as usual, I eat too many pieces and feel a laughing sort of sadness, complaining to everyone about my pizza belly. after rehearsal, I flop down on a friend's couch and we drink through a few bottles of wine, stay up talking until 1 AM.

I bring my saddle and bridle home from the barn. I park the saddle on the living room floor, and it makes the whole room smells like horses and leather. I drape it over one thigh and clean it with a washcloth from the kitchen. it seems like the leather cleaner should smell abrasive, but instead it smells like honey, warm and wonderful. the bridle hangs on a doorknob. there is nobody here to care. everything important about me is all over the floor: parts to galileo, which I have spent the day correcting; a tower of unread books; a pile of dampened running clothes; a saddle pad; a letter in its envelope, awaiting a stamp.

cowgirl up

2012-01-24T23:46:00.000-08:00

tonight I had one of the scariest rides of my life. it's a blustery day, rainy, and I almost didn't ride -- I was running later than I wanted, and was headed straight from the barn to a track meet, which I had been looking forward to for months. but I am committed to three days a week on that horse's back, so I decided I would get on her for half an hour and we would work on basics -- nice straight lines at the walk and trot, lots of circles, listening to my leg.

horses hate wind, because they are prey animals and the wind makes it hard to hear predators. windy days are spooky days, particularly on a worrier like my horse, who doesn't trust that I will save her from monsters. I suspected I was in for it when she had her high-alert ears on as she stood tied at the arena wall, before I was finished tacking her up. she was gazing at something in the distance, head raised, on edge. I could hardly get her to lower her head enough to put the bridle on. nevertheless, I got on. am I afraid sometimes? yes. I am terrified. cowboy up, people.

there was just no having it today. we really did not walk more than six normal steps at any one time before she would freak out. one longside of the arena is a solid wall, but the other is just a five-foot fence; the view on that side is hilly pasture and road, with horses in the distance. Cookie just would. not. walk within five feet of the wall. each time we so much as approached, she would jig and hop and spin so that she was facing the wall, her hind end out of my control. when I got after her, booting her forward, she reared. reared! lord in heaven.

I can hardly explain what the ride was like. petrified of everything, Cookie reared, and bucked, and bolted, and jigged and shied and every other horrible out of control motion you can imagine. it's so hard to tell you what it's like on a horse while they are freaking out. I've been riding a long time -- fifteen years, off and on -- and I've been riding Cookie for three. I know how she moves and although I can't predict what she'll do, I have a generally decent idea. there's the trigger -- a sound, a flash of something going by, another horse spooking -- and there's a moment when all her muscles tense up. then: flight. flight in any direction; flight which may include one end of her (who knows which) hopping into the air. when she flies, I center all my weight over my tailbone, drive my legs down as deep as I can, and open my left rein wide -- a one-rein stop. trying to use both reins, in the normal way, is fruitless on a bolting horse. they just pull and pull, and they are stronger than you. so, you make them turn, and when they turn they have to slow down. you have to make sure the turn is wide, or you can bring them over on top of you. are we having fun yet? ask me how I know all this?

one of my barnmates came down, having heard the commotion from the top of the hill. as she watched, Cookie bucked all the way across the arena. I had lost my right stirrup, so I grabbed a fistful of mane for insurance, and struggled to pull her out of it. we went on like that for a few moments, me yelling "can you please stop, mare, I have dropped my stirrup, sweet lord in heaven!!!" when we finally came to, I yelled GOOD GOD! and the barnmate said, "you know, you might feel crazy but you look like you know exactly what you're doing up there." lynne said, "I'm so fascinated! you stay on her while the others fall off, how are you doing that?" as we cavorted across the arena again, she yelled, "that's it! your lower leg is stronger than theirs!"

the ride which was meant to take twenty or thirty minutes took forty five instead. held prisoner by her bad behavior, there was no dismounting until she calmed down, lest I teach her that by misbehaving, she can avoid work. I always talk to her constantly anyway, but today I found myself just repeating over and over again, it's okay, easy girl, you're okay, you're okay, good girl, don't be afraid, you're okay, until I was no longer sure whether I was talking to my horse or to myself. it took her half an hour, but eventually we could, at the walk, trot and canter, circle half the arena (we avoided the scary, far end) without incident. we did not get there without mishap; on one particularly fast and nasty rear, she clocked my face with her neck, bashing the crap out of my nose and causing my eyes to spontaneously water. I had to stop and take a second, certain that my nose was bleeding and broken. it still hurts like crazy; whether or not it will bruise, only time will tell. I won't be able to blow it for weeks, I bet.

as for whether I fell off my horse? I won't speak of it. it's the one superstition I have in my life.

about ten minutes into the ride, lynne caught some video footage. it's a less dramatic moment, but it does capture one nice teleport across the ring.

yeehaw. I did not sign up for this rodeo. can I have a pokey pony now?

take two

2012-01-18T12:40:00.000-08:00

I went for a walk last night in the snow. it was so lovely; the streets were quiet but for a few cars. other neighbors with similar intentions walked on nearby sidewalks.

the snow clung to my hair, my glasses, the tassels on either side of my hat. good, thick, wet snow, perfect for snowballs, perfect for snowmen. it blanketed the streets and muffled everything, coating the branches in white. I did laps around my neighborhood, looking at all the trees, at the bright, snowy, pink-lit sky. I caught snowflakes on my tongue.

at the bus stop on the corner, I built a tiny snowman, knee-high, to be a friend to the people waiting. I stripped branches off a nearby tree. he has a mutant left arm but I like him just the same.

then I circled the neighborhood, looking for just the right house: darkened windows, no outside lights, no one on the street nearby. when I found it, I built an even tinier snowman, just maybe eight inches tall, in the center of their driveway.

I came across my own footsteps on the block just past mine; for awhile I walked inside them, and then decided to keep myself company, walking next to them instead.

when I finally came in an hour later, I took down my hood and a huge mound of snow fell from the collar of my jacket. my hat and gloves were soaked. I hung all the wet clothes in the bathroom, like when I was a kid, and slipped back into my pajamas. it was nearly midnight. the house was dark except for the light above the stove. outside, a lone bus went by. it was the best thing, all of it.

this morning, the rain was back.

snow-less day

2012-01-17T22:20:00.000-08:00

five minutes before my alarm this morning, on its own pre-ordained schedule, the coffeepot in the kitchen began to brew. unaccustomed to the sound, I lay in bed wondering where it was coming from before I finally smelled the answer. showered and blow-dryed, I checked my phone to discover that the office was closed for snow. what snow? there was no snow, but nevertheless I did a very real happy dance in my bedroom before re-donning my pajamas -- a ridiculous pair of pink leggings, lately -- and curling up on the chaise with my kindle and a coffee.

an occasional flake went by.

from my fuzzy blanket nest, I read many more chapters of a clash of kings (but still appear to not have made a dent). I drank three cups of coffee. I wrote a letter. I got up and dutifully loaded the dishwasher, made a salad, hard boiled some eggs. I took out the trash. I made a cup of tea, fielded a phone call, picked at my nail polish. if it weren't for my horrific chest cold, I would have gone for a run.

all day it did not snow. I ran to pick up a headphone adapter for our conductor. I went to the office, where rehearsal was in progress despite the office being closed, and dropped off the adapter and a latte for our stage manager. I had a doctor's appointment. I put on a bunch of sweatshirts and fed the horses. it misted cold rain and I booked it out of there in a hurry, fearful that the damp would turn to ice.

now: it's snowing. I say that to you in a conspiratorial whisper. I stand giddy at the window and press my face to the glass. big fat flakes come down overhead. it has a certain way of making all the world seem magical, doesn't it? even after all those snowy years in syracuse, I still feel full of wonder.

lately

2012-01-13T17:13:00.000-08:00

• listening to hey jude on repeat
• clutching an assortment of objects in my hand while I sleep
• throwing my clothes on the floor because there's no time to pick anything up
• making haircut appointments and then canceling them because I'm not sure I want to cut my hair?
• finally not feeling guilty on nights when I don't ride, because danielle is out there riding on those nights
• endlessly reading a clash of kings because it GOES ON FOREVER
• not bothering to change into barn-friendly attire when I feed the horses at night, because I feel that coming home with hay flecked around the hem of my dress reflects my inner nature somehow
• imagining complicated blanket forts
• never hydrating enough, ever ever ever
• staying late at work, and running late night errands, and staying at the barn until 10 PM, because suddenly I realize that being thirty and single means that I get to do whatever I want with my time
• doing back-end work on two new blogs, because apparently the two I already run aren't enough?
• suffering endlessly from excruciating hip tightness, knee pain, and absolutely murderous back pain
• changing my marathon hopes to half-marathon hopes
• discovering that when you're surrounded by the right people, this struggle against pain and injury and dashed running plans, while still disappointing, is also completely manageable and okay
• waiting for spring. is it here yet?

2012-01-11T20:04:00.000-08:00

I am so, so tired. so very tired. exhausted to the bone. things are already very busy. I'm not complaining. I'm just tired.

on saturday, my horse sent her younger half-leaser to the hospital. in an ambulance. on a backboard. she'd been bucked off again. maybe you can imagine my frustration and worry; I paced around all afternoon.

I rode her sunday morning, prepared to have a serious discussion with her. of course, as is always the case, she was a nearly perfect angel.

her high-alert face, which sometimes precedes a twenty-foot teleport across the ring

we rode for ninety minutes. she was hot but cooperative. I popped her once with my dressage whip, lightly, because she had blown through my outside leg at the canter. then she had a minor, momentary explosion -- the only moment of bad behavior.

so, there's that.

yesterday was the company holiday party. I am on the planning committee; we've been planning for months. I worked almost exclusively on the party on both monday and yesterday. I got to the office early and stayed late.

the theme this year was 'game night.' we hosted jeopardy, set up the ping pong table, put up the projector and played just dance on the wii, set up a 9-hole mini golf course through the office, which included a beer cart at the halfway point (just before the music library). there was blackjack and a raffle, a ms. pacman game cabinet, board games.

a lot of us, not in collusion with one another, came as clue characters.

there were two peacocks. perhaps we could have been sad at having worn the SAME PROM DRESS, but instead we did this.

peacock v. peacock:

unfortunately I'm pretty sure there is not a single good photo of my costume, which took me two days to make and included eight yards of tulle and a flurry of felt peacock feathers. I lost the costume contest by a nose to a giant chicken holding a slingshot (angry bird). to be fair, his costume was hilarious AND he kept it on all night. won fair and square. birds = rule.

speaking of:

all my people are larger bodies than mine, with voices gentle and meaningless, like the voices of sleeping birds.
-- james agee

day 4

2012-01-04T18:51:00.000-08:00

things are pretty crazy. I came back to the world's largest pile of seemingly unending work at the opera, and I'm trying to bushwhack through all of it while simultaneously maintaining a running and horseback riding schedule, continuing to trod through the second game of thrones book, finish my knitting, and not turn the apartment into a total sty. and it's only january fourth.

january fourth. my friend hannah had her baby this morning, genevieve moira, a healthy baby girl. the entire office -- nay, seemingly all of the internet -- waited all day with bated breath. I got to work very early this morning and for the whole morning tried to direct my iron will towards my to do list, while internally pacing like a wild thing. now that we're all accustomed to acquiring information at the moment it occurs, having to wait even eight hours was agony. there were audible cheers down the length of the hallway when joe's announcement finally popped up on facebook. when a friend texted me a photo of hannah, eyes full of love, holding her little girl, I cried. these are some of the best people I know, truly, and without them I would hardly have survived the last bit of 2011. I can't wait to see them as parents, can't wait to hold their baby. isn't there a less hackneyed word for "joy"?

my new year's resolution is to write at least ten minutes a day, every day of 2012. to be honest, I am already 50% behind, having missed both new year's day and yesterday. the tacit understanding I've built into the resolution, though, is that it isn't a streak; a day of forgetting won't wreck the year. there is no failure. there is only ten minutes of writing a day, every day. writing = letters, journals, involved personal emails, blog posts. opera blog posts may or may not count, depending. (I can't draw the line, but I'll know it when I see it). this is in hopes of returning to a practice, one I kept without thought in college but lost later.

I would like to write more letters. wouldn't you like to receive more letters?

I have a lot of minor resolutions that aren't really resolutions, but something more like proverbial presses of the reset button. one of them: I rode my horse last night, for the first time in a month. a lot of things have been keeping me away: laziness, nervousness, injury. but when we celebrated our three year anniversary, I suddenly realized that having a horse was my little-girl dream come true, and I haven't been honoring that dream. cookie is well taken care of, but I take her for granted. eleven-year-old me -- the girl who tied rope to her bike handlebars, to make them into reins -- would be appalled at how little I am out there, grooming and petting, feeding treats, riding or just hanging out. I want to do better, both for cookie and for that eleven-year-old, who with every good report card got to pick out a toy from the toy store and who always picked the breyer horses.

the life list

2012-01-01T19:06:00.000-08:00

also known as the bucket list, the mighty life list, etc. I've been lazily editing this forever; it's very short and a real work in progress.

go local
ride the tram
compete in the adult spelling bee
stay a night at timberline
go to the pendleton round-up
catch razor clams
go to the drive in
take the shanghai tunnel tour
ride the train to canada

be brave
sing karaoke
take a ballroom dance class
visit a country whose language I don't speak
~~shave my head~~
~~get a tattoo~~

accomplishments
do a split
run a sub-3:45 marathon
run a sub 20 5K
compete in a triathlon
knit a sweater
take a ballet class
keep a 5-year journal
pay off my credit cards
go to the stupid orthodontist
learn to sew

adventures
ride in a foxhunt
summit mt. hood
ride horses in mongolia
skydive

visit
the eiffel tower
the uffizi
the crazy traffic jams of india
a white sand beach in the caribbean
the northern lights
la scala
machu picchu

read
war & peace
the pulitzer winners
a catcher in the rye (it's embarrassing but I admit I've never finished it. worst english major ever)

watch
rocky
james bond
godfather II, III
the best picture oscar winners

learn
become fluent in french
become proficient in italian, korean, german (spanish?)
drive a stick shift
take good photos
do a good free handstand (not against the wall)
shoot a gun

live
meet all my siblings
tape an interview with my grandmother
get a dog

everything else
slide down a bannister
slide down a fire pole
get published
wear a cape

2011

2011-12-31T12:51:00.000-08:00

never ran this hard through the valley
never ate so many stars

I was carrying a dead deer
tied on to my neck and shoulders

deer legs hanging in front of me
heavy on my chest

people are not wanting
to let me in

door in the mountain
let me in

- jean valentine

although I don't truly believe that the flip of a calendar page can change a life, I still can't wait to shake the dust of 2011 off my skin. I don't need to do a year in review -- you know what it was: full of depression and sadness, struggle, grief. I'm much, much better now, but still I am so done with it, and don't feel at all sorry for its passing.

for all of you out there who read this little thing, who suffered through the months of endless weeping, I am eternally grateful. some of you I know; some of you I have never met or heard from. but thank you. for all of you, may the new year bring joy and excitement, contentment, challenge, exhilaration, peace.

2012, you already hold great promise. big things await. my guns are at the ready.

2011-12-30T06:07:00.000-08:00

home. I tromp down into our woods, a path I used to walk all the time in the summers, when I would go and sit on the big rock in the creek and read books and feel wild.

my mom's cats are utterly ridiculous.

I finally found prettyboy dam. I was just one road off the first time I tried.

on christmas eve, there are family activities.

(the icing was hard to get out of the bag)

christmas day:

tristan and I drive up to new york.

he indulges me and we go into fao schwarz. all the candy is jurassic.

nintendo world. a theme emerges.

at home, bananagrams. my sister makes this (illegal, proper noun):

...while my brother makes this.

all of this is pretty much how it goes.

2011-12-23T20:20:00.000-08:00

maryland. my brother is much taller than he was this summer. my sister mostly talks about track, and it's funny to hear so much chatter about 8 x 300s, what running tights should be called (she prefers leggings), what my old coach is making them do. he's retired from everything but coaching, and only does that as a volunteer. he has a buzz cut and a glass eye. he taught at the high school for 41 years.

I have a zippy little red rental car and on thursday I find myself driving the old back roads of my youth. It's been years since I had the freedom of a car here at home; mostly I borrow my mom's truck. on a whim I turn down one road after another, not remembering where any of them lead. this was a hobby of mine the summer between junior and senior years of high school: pick a new road and drive until you come upon something you know. in that fashion I learned three ways to anywhere in a twenty mile radius. but now, when I try to remember the way to the old reservoir, I end up somewhere completely different instead.

my mother rescued five kittens from under the shed this summer. two of them remained as pets; they are identical orange cats aptly called fred and george.

this afternoon I headed out for a trail run, wearing a bright magenta shirt and an orange bandana tied around my neck to avoid being shot by the bow hunters. what can I say about running that old trail, except that I was full of breathless, unbridled joy -- so much memory, so much wildness, so much belonging -- and after cresting the one big hill, at the start of the long decline, I ran as fast as I dared on my bad knee, flying with loose hair through the oak trees, like a deer. given two good legs, I would have run all four of the trails today; it was hard to pull myself away.

two of my old girlfriends and I visit our french III teacher at the high school. my sister has him for french II, fourth period. the high school smells the same as it always did, and we all get giggly as we walk down the hall. mr. baier -- we can't bring ourselves to call him 'brett' -- treats us as old friends. we stopped being his students fifteen years ago; he drops an f-bomb and I realize he's closer in age to me than scott was. we talk horses (he and his wife own four) and he makes us do busywork: a worksheet of holiday terms to fill in. I leave mine on my sister's desk for her to cheat from, and indeed, later on that day he lets her use it, sending it home to me marked with a star. later on, the three of us walk the halls, laughing; we crash into the band room and take our photo, then discover an arts booster table where they are selling personalized sweatshirts. we each order one, asking for our old nicknames to be embroidered on the back.

tomorrow is christmas eve. in the car on the way back from hampden tonight, talking about our plans for the day, my brother informed me that I would have to take him christmas shopping. when I asked if he was joking, he grew defensive and copped an attitude, and I called him an asshole. oh, family.

2011-12-18T13:47:00.000-08:00

my youngest sister answers the phone when I call to talk to my mom. these days, we're always talking about high school, because she is a freshman, encountering many of my old teachers; for the first time in either of our lives, my past and her present very neatly overlap. the old geometry teacher doesn't remember me (which is good; I often slept in my back-row seat). my indoor track coach, of course, does, and delivers the sad but unsurprising news that my old high school record in the 800m relay, hard-won, has been broken. because of my antics in his class, my old french III teacher (one of my favorites) teases her more, which I know she secretly loves.

she asks me if I remember someone three years my junior, and the name doesn't really ring a bell. "he's my indoor track coach now," she says, "and when I asked if he knew who you were, he said, 'of course I remember her.'" I remind her that I was a senior when he was a freshman, and so more easily memorable; I was also one of the best on the team that year. secretly I am a little pleased.

now she is running all the trails I have kept close in my heart for the twelve years I've been gone, though many of them are called by new names: the old barn trail is the barnyard trail now; the barn trail doesn't have a name at all. the ridge trail, though -- forever and always my favorite -- remains the same. I promise her I will show her the quarry trail, which we used to access by climbing the back fence and then crashing through the woods to the river. the trail follows the gunpowder to the base of a hill on a road near our home, and in the latest weeks of spring track we would run there to leap from the bridge into the water.

life has been unspeakably busy, the kind of busy that's so overwhelming you can't even quite look at it. sixteen hours some days have been spent doggedly marking parts, which reached my mailbox much later than they were supposed to from various string principals. my back aches and I have hardly been outside in days, but they're done. I leave for maryland in 36 hours. I haven't slept much, and as usual I've eaten too much candy.

at home there are many people to see. I think the trip will be full of nostalgia, and maybe some sort of quiet awakening. a fissure. in maryland the winter sky is diffuse blue; the leaves crack underfoot in the woods of my backyard. the rope swing is gone, I think, from the ash tree, having finally rotted away. the beloved family dog was put to sleep this summer; her absence, long anticipated, will nevertheless be a soft ache. the chickens will be under the heat lamp. as usual, the family room thermostat will be set at a preposterous 55 degrees. I never bring enough to wear around the house, but thankfully can rely on my sister, who is officially as big as I am. I refuse to let her grow taller.

my brother's voice is suddenly deeper. they are both nearly grown. who may abide it.

time travel

2011-12-14T19:02:00.000-08:00

unearthing old journals: there is so much power in it. somehow, this is always a surprise. I have online diaries scattered across the web, hidden in nooks and crannies. strung together with the nineteen notebooks, they are a remarkable, vivid record of my life. reading these old blogs makes me feel as though I could almost talk to past versions of me. old jess, through the page, is as close as she'll ever be. I like her.

back in those days, writing was as sure as air - easy to reach and unending.

from the archives, august 5, 2005:
I have my hair braided into twin braids and a new shirt on, and I am laughing as I pull into the driveway, not knowing what to expect, but in ten minutes we are kissing in the kitchen and it's as though june and july forgot to exist. we have unbelievable chicken ('why is it unbelievable?' I ask. 'because that's what I decided to call it,' he answers) and squash and watermelon margaritas and I sit on the kitchen counter, telling stories. he says, you are writing the novel! this is it! and I shake my head impatiently, saying that I'm not writing anything and that's the problem. but he shakes his head and says, this is it, it's just not written; I am thankful for this, his saying it.

we get stoned and drunk and have sex on the dining room floor. the chicken really is unbelievable.

2011-12-12T18:29:00.000-08:00

the days are short, and dark, and cold. I spend my sunday making homemade cinnamon hard candy; it cools in a slab on the counter, then gets broken up with a hammer, sugared, and put into jars. I infuse vodka (cranberry lime). the sealed jar leaks when I shake it. I dye my secondhand full seat breeches, to hide the stains made by someone else's black dressage saddle. I intend to dye them from white to dark grey but, inexplicably, they emerge navy blue instead. I make a double-batch of caramels and discover too late -- as the pot is boiling -- that my candy thermometer has sprung a leak and is steaming on the inside, making it impossible to know the temperature. they come out as the world's softest caramel, too pliable to wrap into bites. they're still delicious, but you almost could eat them with a spoon. unsure of what to do with them next, they sit in pans on the counter, wrapped in parchment paper.

I think to watch a movie, but I'm too restless. I stretch my injured places, which keep hurting anyway. I sit down to knit, but I am too distracted to finish more than four rows, and I get up again. I make the next day's lunch. I stand in the kitchen eating a banana, which I smear with peanut butter before every bite.

life is lovely, but very messy. all we can do is learn to work with what it brings.

the blessings

2011-12-11T00:10:00.000-08:00

well, I can imagine him beyond the world, looking back at me with an amazement of realization-- "this is why we have lived this life!" there are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient.
-- gilead, marilynne robinson

this morning, driving through the early morning fog to a race a few hours away, I suddenly realized that the day had come when I became the girl I yearned for a few months ago, crying late at night in the bathroom. in the raw terrible days immediately following the breakup, I wished fervently to time-travel -- I'm sure you remember -- to the days just before it, so that I might impart some lasting knowledge on the former, pre-heartbreak version of myself. if I can't go back, I said, at least let there be a future me out there somewhere, in a place where everything is all okay, who fervently wishes she could travel in time to today to tell me it will all turn out in the end.

life is full of blessings. so many of the people I love are far from me, and for so long it has felt like a burden to be without them. but I am not without them. the other day, Cristina's toffee arrived in the mail at work, which was joy, tripled: one, I miss Cristina desperately; two, I got to hand out the bags of toffee to their recipients, making me the toffee fairy by proxy. and three? that toffee is delicious.

today was one of the best days I've had in so long, full to the brim with boundless happiness. the drive to eugene, where I might have had a one-person dance party singing single ladies loudly in the driver's seat somewhere around albany. the race, where I met up with a dear new friend I might as well have known forever, plus a gaggle of very kind folks from his running group; almost all of us won a medal -- I took third place. the impromptu beer at a corvallis brewery, where I stopped just to buy a bottle of their christmas beer but discovered it was sold out, leaving me to sit for the first time alone at the bar, drinking a pint so I could enjoy it once this year. the grange, where my farmer friends had a stand; we got to hug and catch up, egging each other on about our 5K times (nearly identical; I just pulled ahead). I bought some eggs. I ate some surprisingly delicious west african food. I hugged my friends again, saying goodbye. internet, I'm pretty sure they are some of the best people I know.

girl, I promise: it will all turn out in the end.

hobble

2011-12-07T17:21:00.000-08:00

so, vegas.

we jumped on the beds. (seriously.)

we went ziplining down fremont street.

we played the penny slots. (and collectively we might have won enough money for a coffee.)

we walked A LOT. that place is like new york in terms of walking. they trap you in those casinos and you're forced to go, I know there's a parking garage here somewhere, because the car's in it...

we ran the half. having a night race meant we kind of accidentally spent the whole day walking. also I had kung pao chicken for breakfast and probably like three cups of coffee. bad choices. it was okay.

my full write-up of the race is forthcoming on the run oregon blog, but on the whole, our personal experience was okay leaning towards disappointing. the event itself was catastrophic. we couldn't hit our intended goal time (2 hours) because there were just too many people. my right IT band, which has never been a problem ever ever ever, had suddenly flared up on friday and caused me a tremendous amount of pain beginning almost instantly at the start of the race. bad enough that I let dayna go on without me; bad enough that I actually burst into tears at one point. I would have gladly DNFed if there had been any medical tent anywhere who could have transported me to the finish, but as it was, I mostly chose to keep running on my leg because the only alternative was walking, and that was worse.

I have moved mountains in the last day and a half to heal -- employing every single behavioral, dietary, and medicinal trick in the book -- and I can almost bend the leg again without pain. almost. I'm currently wearing a bag of frozen corn on my knee.

otherwise, we had fun but we were both glad to be back in our beds. vegas is exhausting. half-marathons are exhausting. being surrounded by 44,000 people is exhausting. I still haven't caught up on sleep.

in vaguely related news, here is the nike cross nationals video I shot a month ago. I am visible for a split second at 0:35, just before the announcer introduces Andrew Wheating.

hopefully I'll be running like that again soon. I was supposed to run two back-to-back 5Ks this weekend (one Saturday, one Sunday) and I am super bummed at the possibility of missing them. SHAPE UP, LEG.

december 1

2011-12-01T18:11:00.000-08:00

the ale fest: tents with transparent roofs, clear crisp air, a table full of crackers and cheese and cookies. when I arrive late, everyone is happy and tipsy and they all immediately pour me beer from their mugs to taste, which spills drop by drop from an unseen hole in the bottom of my cup. we grin at one another. we pore over the list of beers. which one, I want to know, tastes the most like a christmas tree?

next to me, jon is adorably drunk and we lament that I can't be his boyfriend and he can't be my boyfriend; we both like boys. behind us, a man dressed in an immaculate velvet santa costume comes up and we take his picture. a friend jokes, 'whatever you do, don't sit on that santa's lap.'

at a stand near our table, they are roasting chestnuts, the smell of which mingles with the christmas tree beside us. there are string lights overhead. we all eat too many oreos. we toast our friends tom and rob, who were married in new york yesterday after cross-planet dating (u.s. & australia) for years.

the chestnuts are expensive but worth it; I've never had one. I share them with jon and bob, and then walk through the tent flaps out into the cold, clutching the paper cone in my hand. the chestnuts are each cut so that they can be eaten with a squeeze of the fingers. the night is full of christmas shoppers and commuters, and the stars, for once, are bright and clear.

"thanks," w.s. merwin

2011-11-30T20:36:00.000-08:00

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

thanksgiving weekend

2011-11-28T12:00:00.000-08:00

thursday:

(that's the macy's parade, an absolutely essential part of any thanksgiving morning kitchen activities)
(don't ask about the bottle of lighter fluid on the floor.)

(two pounds -- TWO. POUNDS.-- of royal icing. which later erupted out of the bag and oozed ungracefully down the length of both of my arms before I could contain it.)

the whole point of five hours of baking.

sing-along. mostly the beatles.

I don't remember taking this photo of myself, probably because people kept handing me manhattans?

friday:
not pictured: sleep in, watch trashy daytime TV, feel sorry about overeating. lay on chaise. knit.

ride horse. discover horse has developed, because of her two relative beginner riders, obnoxious habit of tossing head in the air to evade work. remind horse that she does not get to have an opinion about work.

read half of the girl with the dragon tattoo.

make crafts, paint nails.

saturday:

not pictured: throw cover crop seeds into garden. pick wilted-looking heirloom purple brussels sprouts. ride horse -- now a reformed citizen -- for the majority of the afternoon.

actually, I guess I don't have ANY pictures of saturday. sorry, blog.

sunday:

run hot buttered run. vow not to go hard but discover I am not psychologically programmed to run a race without racing. start from the back of the pack, weave for two miles around everybody, get stuck behind a train for four minutes. in those four minutes, befriend a lady who has apparently been following me for the whole race and who's wearing the same shirt as me. we run together for another half mile or so before I motor away.

meet heather at sizzler for lunch.

sizzler charm.

sizzler was on her mighty life list. specifically, the unlimited shrimp they advertise was on her mighty life list. unfortunately in order to get the unlimited shrimp you had to get a steak, too. TRICKSY. it turned out OK because the shrimp wasn't really that great, and actually all you need is an unlimited taco bar and a soft serve machine. and fried chicken.

you guys. YOU GUYS. here is the best part of the weekend.

that is a tiger pillow. a latch hook tiger pillow. that heather made me. as a sizzler thank you. and also because she knows how much I like tigers.

I'm pretty sure it ties my entire living room together. for the record, the zebra print blanket is a snuggie and it was already on the chaise -- this is not a staged photo.

tiger cub says, come closer.

closer...

CLOSER.