Middle Ages

I have been captivated by the Middle Ages for months now. First, reading a battered paperback copy of Crichton's Timeline that my aunt passed along to me  in late summer of this year. Thankfully, the excellent eight-part mini series Pillars of the Earth came out at the same time that I was reading Timeline, so I was immersed in the early Middle Ages for about two months, reading the one story and then watching another.

When I went back to North Carolina's High Country for my birthday at the beginning of October, I needed another good book to read and I figured I would pick up the sequel to Pillars, another Ken Follet epic called World Without End. I've been thinking about why this time period interests me so. I am amazed at how hard life was back then. If a peasant mother died and the family was too poor to get a milking cow or a milking goat, the baby would die for lack of milk. You couldn't just feed a baby formula the way you would today. Even if the baby lived, chances were pretty high that it would succumb to some sort of illness, a pox, measles, anything. Peasants had little rights and I can't believe that there was a time where people were serfs, told what they could grow and if they could marry.

I can't imagine how there were enough hours in the day for women to cook food, let alone gather vegetables from a garden, or keep a home clean. There are many references in the book as to how important it was to have storage of good crops for off times, when the weather would be too dry or too wet. I can't believe that a farmer was so beholden to luck; luck of weather, of soil conditions, war or peacetime, insect swarms or blight. How can it be that a prosperous farmer could have a wet summer or too much winter damp and lose everything and remain penniless? Reading these novels, I think I've come to appreciate that for everyone back then, death was almost always at the doorstep. Life was precarious and full of power struggle. How easy life in the modernized Western world is now.

Maybe I'm drawn to this time period because of all the competing powers; the Church, townspeople, merchants, serfs, lords, kings, countries. In a world where even a king could be destroyed by a bishop, and a good farmer could lose everything after one blighted year, every moment of life was precious and miraculous.

What's The Dream

"What's The Dream..." I ask others, interested in what they want to do. The Page Program at a particular national television network where I work has been a wonderful place to ask this question, since all of us are in the same age range, want to do something creative/ enterainment based, and are young enough to still have dreams. When I look at them I wonder how they're hanging it together given that most of them have a rent and/ or car to pay for. I couldn't imagine the struggle. Now that I'm back with my immediate family, I can't really imagine "going home" for the holidays. On most days in Los Angeles, I like where I am.

What's My Dream? I don't know. That's something after hours, days, years of self-searching that I'm still trying to figure out. Pursue exactly what I want and deal with the probable financial consequences? Pursue something else and make money? Find a balance? Is there a balance? I'm not sure. But I'm trying to figure it out. A true libra 'til the end, I'm a scale, weighing options in both hands, sorting them, filing and balancing them all, trying to find where the right thing fits. That's why I'm so indecisive. With life there are so many paths, so many possibilities, they all need to be looked at, not just taken quickly. That's the way it is for me. I'm looking forward to the day that I can make a choice and not regret it; not play the-grass-is-always-greener-on-the-other-side-of-the-fence game.

So. Pas Street Intersection is Witness to Pure Joy

A week ago I was sitting with Andrew at one of my favorite places in South Pasadena, on a beautiful sunny day with a chilled breeze. He'd just had major mouth surgery where two infected teeth were pulled out, so we were sitting outside basking in the fabulous weather and drinking down milkshakes. I look over and I witness a moment of pure joy.

On the street corner about 20 feet from us are two older people, at least in their 60s but fit looking. The grandfather looks down and sees his grandson nestled at his legs, arms outstretched with a yearning to be picked up. The kid is about five or six and his glee at wanting to be in his grand dad's arms is overtaking his body, making him smile and bounce on the arches of his feet like a buoy in an incoming ocean tide. He arches his back with excitement, reminding me of the way a cat arches it's back when it is pet at the base of it's tail, luxuriating in one of it's favorite places to be scratched. With such ease, the tall grandfather cuddles the boy into this arms and places him under his chin, against his broad chest as Grandma watches on. She gently grabs the little boy's hand and then embraces her partner and their grandson, with nothing but love brimming to the edges of their family hug.

So entranced with this moment of sheer joy and love, I tap Andrew. "Ohhh, you gotta look at this." He looks and smiles as I gush about how cute this all is. And the moment is frozen in time, as if every movement is in slow motion, the traffic whizzing by at this busy intersection fades to a sepia shade as I see nothing but this happy family and the bank building behind them. I'm glad I was here to witness it. The Fosselman's ice cream milkshakes weren't bad either.

Nightmares

I've been bombarded for nights now with unsavory and startling dreams. When I awake, my eyes are crusty with sleep as if I've been crying quietly and then overtaken by fatigue.

Nightmares focus on my lack of professional work and the hopelessness I feel in my job search. I strive, every day, hitting the beat, asking for waitressing or hostessing work at businesses I frequent. Filling out applications in customer service jobs---jobs that I don't even want but look to as a way to get employed and bring money to my struggling circumstances. Time and time again, I feel like God or Fate or Providence has been fucking with me; employment agencies see my resume and interview me for an open position, only for that position to be filled from within the company days later. Recruiters, calling me about job prospects, only to find that my asking rate is too high. How can my rate be too high, if by calculations, my rate at 40 hours a week wouldn't even allow me to live independently of my family?

I'm so sick and tired of people telling me I just gotta keep trying. I've been out of full time work for 18 months now. While I'm lucky to have a part time position, it's just that---a position that probably won't lead me anywhere, and it's part time; usually less than 20 hours a week.

I know beggars can't be choosers in this economy, and I'm lucky to have food on the table and a roof over my head. But I feel swindled of everything. My parents are paying off my college loan for a degree that's not getting me anywhere. For everyone who says that there are plenty of entry-level jobs available in the PR and marketing world, I ask, where? I'm not seeing any of them.

My nightmares take me to places where I'm still searching for apartments, trapped with two college friends who betrayed my friendship. I'm voiceless and powerless with these two, who make all the decisions and do nothing but scorn me. In these dreams, I'm constantly running up against scary what-ifs and deadlines and emptiness. Sometimes, I'm in a new city, bereft of the friendships that mean so much to me, and starting my life all over again, as I did in Portland. That story didn't end well and the fear of having another miserable 10 months, filled with crying and lonliness and depression, keep me from moving elsewhere, even though I've heard there are more entry level job opportunities in San Francisco.

And the thing I hate the most is, right now, I'm feeling that old wanderlust I inherited from my father. The kind that kept him moving from New Jersey, to Florida, to Texas and to California. The kind that keeps him wanting to leave LA as soon as he can.

Right now, I think about beautiful fall trees in the Northwest, while ours are still green in balmy weather, and how I'm sitting in an hour of traffic to go 18 miles, when I could be in Portland on the MAX or in San Francisco on the BART.

I told Amelia, I feel like a mess, and I don't fucking know what to do anymore. And that's where I am. I'm crying in my sleep and I'm waking only to worry and wait about job prospects the next day. I just don't know if or when this will all be over.

Chilean Miners

We all watched, tuned in, turned up, engaged in--- the news about the 33 Chilean miners that were rescued this last week after spending more than two full months in nothing but damp, pitch black conditions.

In any time, this would be great news; especially since not every mining accident ends so happily (note earlier this year several miners in Pennsylvania lost their lives just doing a daily job.)

But this story is REALLY heartening right now. Amidst such bad news, a sluggish global economy that just keeps limping along, the wealthy that caused this whole recession continue to get wealthier, the statistics that 1 out of every 7 Americans is living in poverty (note that this statistic does not gauge those living at-near poverty levels, nor does this statistic acknowledge that the federal poverty line is unrealistically set at an-already-too-low-to-live at standard), the news that a third world country could safely get 33 miners to the surface is fantastic.

If only we could all get over our biases and issues, our separations, cultures, religions, political affiliations and get together on something that is universally important; oh what kind of world would that be?

Climbing Hills

I enjoy climbing hills, literally. I'm a marathon walker; I can walk miles and miles and at a good clip, and given the choice between a long gentle walk or a steep hill to climb, I prefer to exert more energy and sweat over the hill.

I've never really had the desire to scale mountains and go on steep hiking expeditions, but recently, I'm enjoying the challenges that come along with slopes, canyons, rocky terrain and all sorts of soil underfoot.

Today I walked up Lida Street, just west and above the Rose Bowl; my ultimate destination: Art Center College of Design. I wanted to see the city from a different vantage point and visit the place where years ago, after attending a Saturday art class at the campus, I stood on a small lawn and watched a stag, his mate and their baby walk down a narrow, steep trail and up another one. His antlers and eyes were trained on us humans on the lawn, a mere thirty feet from him, and I could feel how anxious he was to be taking his family so close to people. The silent tension was so pervasive, I could do nothing but stand motionless as they stepped purposefully and quickly into the safety of the brush.

Walking from neighborhood street onto an ever higher ascent, the sidewalk hidden under a foot of pressed pine needles, I rounded the corner, and then another steeper curve, and then turned left into the driveway. Up ahead, on one of the bluffs before the black cantilevered college, I see what used to be a driveway and a trail head that leads out onto the edge of the cliff. Stepping onto the trail, I see it leads quite a ways down and at the end there's a makeshift tepee, pieced together carefully from old branches and tree trunks.

With every step I've been enjoying the labored breath, the sweat, the burning in my calf muscles and I've been pondering over my life, as I always do when I walk. I note rabbit droppings and deer prints in the dirt, holes in the sand where tarantulas may burrow. I go inside the tepee where there are two logs surrounding a miniature tepee model. As I crouch there I feel as though I'm in a sacred space, the sun beating down on me, I get the sense that there's some special energy in the structure. The space and time collide and had I been on a bike or more likely a car, I wouldn't have seen this special hut at all. At the top of the hill, I've lost sweat and calories and found a special air underneath the powerful sun. It all comes from climbing hills.

Lost Generation

After reading a Los Angeles Times article in an ongoing series about the unemployed in California, I felt depressed and also slightly relieved.

According to the LA Times, for people ages 18-24 the jobless rate in California is 18.01%, roughly double that of average unemployment rate for all job seekers in the country. Note that the unemployment rate only counts those who are receiving unemployment checks and actively seeking work; the rate skews more hopeful than realistic because it doesn't count those not receiving unemployment checks (as I was when I was laid off in Oregon more than a year and half ago; my company didn't have unemployment benefits and Oregon doesn't force employers to utilize the tax benefit) those who are underemployed, meaning they are capable of much more demanding, challenging, and/ or higher paid work, and those who are employed but only working part time and making ends meet with credit cards, mom and dad or roommates.

18.01% is a bad number for unemployment, but I also remind myself that during the Great Depression the numbers were worse. I still have a roof over my head and I'm not living in a shanty just yet. Like a monk, I try to humble myself, keeping in mind all the gifts and benefits I have in my life. Some aren't so lucky. Many are not as lucky as I. Still, I can't shake the feeling that I have a few more excruciating years to go before I start making any good money, before I can work in a capacity that makes me happy. I can't shake the feeling that I am part of a millions-strong Lost Generation; a generation that will make less money and have less stability than their parents and grand parents. I can't shake the feeling that I am part of a generation that has already been stripped of its voice and power, defenseless to Wall Street executives and the wealthy 1% that control everything, if only to create more war to make themselves more money.

This, I try not to think about. I just try to be humble and to feel blessed that I have a roof over my head and a cat curled up on my bed.

Hidden

There was once a time when anybody could have asked me, what do you want to pursue in life, what kind of work do you want to do, to which I would have said:  I want to write, especially write for Rolling Stone and go on the road with bands and cover rock and country and folk concerts and some such.

And now, about three years after my senior year of college, I find myself in a big quandry. I don't know what I want to do anymore. I like writing. I enjoy it. It gives me a thrill to put words to paper and put pieces of a puzzle together to create something beautiful, and then get paid for it. But there are such things as reality too. And the reality of it is, that my profession, journalism, is changing, and in many ways disappearing so rapidly that the jobs are just not there.

Don't get me wrong; journalism will always exist because people will always want information and stories about their government, religion, schools, institutions, celebrities, communities, friends, entertainment, nature and everything in between. But well respected news from the trusted news sources is being produced by fewer and fewer people and more journalists are becoming freelance, scratching together an existence in spite of low advertising revenue and distribution.

People have told me to do what I love and the money will follow, but I find this hard to believe. It's not like going to LA to be an actor; a hard feat, because of the competition, but not because acting is going away or changing. On the other hand, traditional journalism, the kind of journalism that paid a decent wage, is going away, and in this case, I feel like being a journalist is probably the stupidest thing I could do right now.

My heart also makes me wonder if I could be a real reporter. The kind of reporter who's writing day in and day out, even if I was lucky enough to get a staff gig, about murders, and drug cartels and poverty and stupidity and incompetence in our government institutions. Is writing worth the mundance depression that would go with such a position, the constant reminder of all that is wrong with the world?

I don't know. And for this and so many other reasons, I remain on the fence, trying to figure out what will make me happy, what will make me want to go to work, and how I can make the comfortable living I desire doing that thing. Mix all of this into an economy where I'm not only fighting with other young college grads as well educated as I am, but with professionals who have years of experience on their resume.

Without a direction, I feel stuck in a mire, and I don't know what to do. I used to know myself so well. I used to be extremely self aware. And now I find that I'm hidden even unto myself.

I don't know what to do and I'm waiting for the day where I can leave the crossroads I'm at, and head down the trail I want to. Until then, I guess I'll just keep writing and putting one foot in front of another.

JetBlue Flight Attendant is My Hero

This last week we all heard the story about the JetBlue flight attendant who snapped when one of his passengers refused to follow his instructions; the flight attendant (or FT as I will call him) had had enough, and in a burst of quitting glory, ended his sobriety when he went to the beverage cart, pulled two beers, went on the plane's PA system to harangue the passengers, and opened the emergency-use-only inflatable slide to exit the plane.

Upon hearing this story, I laughed out loud. For anyone who's worked in a customer service field, especially if you're smarter than the average cretin, we've all wanted to do this. We've all wanted to have our say, embarrass the stupid costumer and throw it in, telling our colleagues, our customers and our bosses just how much we hate the job, and how much better we are than what we've been doing.

To me, the FT was a hero, not a zero, and in the last month, when I'm working at a job where I do twice the amount of work I was doing two weeks ago, with no raise, barely living on the money I make, hating my situation, wanting a job and being offered two job interviews only for the jobs to be filled by internal hires, I'm with this guy.

The whole world can take it and shove it, because he and I are so much better than the work we are performing.

Love. Addiction. Same thing.

According to a study mentioned in Wired magazine, love is an addiction. I laughed to myself as I read this because that's always been my experience with love. The utter surprise of hitting it off with someone becomes an endorphin stoker, pushing my happy hormones to excited levels. And then comes the anxiety that is attached to happiness; to get so happy means that should it not work out, the disappointment is crushing, so the anxiety acts as a preemptive downer.

Then comes the inability to sleep, the difficulty in concentrating, my mind jumping to the love high at any given moment, savoring it, remembering it, feeling it. My mind becomes ever so excitable, so it's hard to stand still and my thirst to keep moving increases.

When I get the text message or the phone call, the high is refueled, my heart jumping into my throat or my stomach and I crave more and more. I crave more dates, more physical contact, more glances, more kisses, more emotion from him.

And then, when it doesn't work out, even if it's for the best, I jones for it. Like a junkie who is dope sick and thinks one more dose is going to fix everything, I jones for his voice, his mouth, his smell, his words.

According to the Wired study, when the subjects, people who were still in love with their exes, looked at photos of the exes, a part of their brains lit up on a neural scan. That same part of the brain also lights up when an addict indulges or is craving another fix. On a positive note, the study showed that time does heal all wounds; those subjects who had been broken up longer than others had the weakest reaction to their exes' photos than those who had just broken up. The more the time, the lesser the reaction, the lessening of the addiction.

Addiction is a funny thing, and one I hope to kick one day.

Risks

It's only the anxiety, I think to myself as I move forward with my business plan. I'll be honest enough to say that I'm not sure if I'll see it through; like, I may get to the point where I finish the plan, see how much money I would theoretically need, look at the interest in the terms of inked finance loans, and might in the end, decide the risk is too great.

Risk is something I think about often. I was born a planner with an adventurer's heart, a methodical and rational thinker, a safe, straight-arrow type person with a thrill seeker's soul. This is my problem. Having lived through crushing lows and desperate periods, I tend to walk a line which I know will keep me happy and balanced. But, the thrill sometimes is too great. Don't get me wrong, I dream and I pursue dreams. Freelancing is a dream, and one I pursue. Owning property is a dream, and one I continue to cultivate. So is the garden I planted, which will yield something and has taught me about my connection to the earth and my own two hands.

Everyone asses risks and then chooses whether the risks are worth taking or the potential backlash is too much. I'm somewhere in the middle, trying to think about the hypothetical payoff versus the negative outcomes. We'll see. But for now, I'm happy to dream and place one foot in front of the other, moving forward with my business as if I am really going to do it.

It is now 1 in the morning and although summer's heat hasn't come yet, I find myself in the midst of pre-summer insomnia.

I've been thinking about integrity. I hope to become assertive enough and bold enough to hold my integrity, that when there's a chance of giving in when I don't believe in something, just to make things work, I'll back off and take the punishment for standing by my word.

Germany's Metropolis and the American Dream

I've never seen Metropolis but am quite sure I know what this epitome-of-German-expressionist-film's story is about. The crucial and seemingly never ending struggle between the poor working class and the wealthy in a capitalist society.

This just in: the American Dream is now dead. I kind of finally understand what Hunter S. Thompson was searching for. Perhaps in his drug-addled state, and in my sober one, he and I have come to the same conclusion. This depresses me, but I believe in not wasting the pretty. Not wasting the most precious commodity, time.

The world is Mad Max and the post apocalypse of the Postman. I've moved past sadness although it still tugs at me, into looking out for me, my family and my friends alone. That's all that matters. It is a dog eat dog world and I'm going to make it if I have to use tooth and nail.

Signing out.

Also, in an attempt to keep this blog closed to stupid Asian people who keep commenting with Asian language characters, I'm seriously thinking about revamping my privacy settings. If you don't know me, I don't want to hear your comments, especially if you are too stupid or cowardly to write them in English. Post one and it will be deleted.

Enough said.

This One's for the Girls

I want to take this time and truly thank all of the utterly fabulous lady friends I have in my life.

Although months or years had passed since we were really close, you opened your arms to me when I came back to LA, broken and discouraged. The same friendships I had let lapse at times, the ones I grew up with in high school and childhood ballet classes, those friendships were stronger than ever when I came back home.

Heartbroken last summer, breakfast with Amelia at Dupar's soothed my soul. When my anxiety over finding a job and doing everything I ever wanted took over it was Amelia who constantly reminded me "it doesn't mean it won't happen, it's just not happening right now."

When I've been anxious, sad, crying, these lady friends never paused before saying "you can talk to me whenever you need to," or "what's going on?"

These ladies were also there to open me up, to expose me to downtown LA bars and dancing and getting drunk and hangover breakfasts and all the things the more straight-laced Carolyn wouldn't try without provocation.

They've had advice and more importantly, a willing ear to hear everything I have to say. When I'm lost, they give me perspective and hope. They remind me that fear is merely a feeling, not a reality. They boost my confidence and make me feel at home. They are my heart and my soul and my life partners.

As Samantha said in Sex and the City 2, "A long time ago we all agreed we'd be each other's soul mates."

I've felt that way for a long time, but I haven't said it out loud. I am now.

I can't thank all of you enough for the roles you play in my life and the people you are. I feel truly blessed to know all of you. Thank you for being a part of my life. And I know you are all my soul mates.

The Fall, otherwise known as Calamity Carolyn and the Demon Mare

I flew through the air, landing with a silent but hard thud on tightly packed dirt and small gravel. My tail bone and the small of my back were the first things to hit the ground and my head was the last, but I remember the crack of the helmet as the base of my head collided with earth.

Looking up, I couldn't sit up, and the pain was horrendous, taking over my whole body. The day before I'd fallen too, the first time I'd ever done so, in the arena, luckily on soft soil. My pride was hurt more than anything and tears I could not stop rushed down my face. I got back on too, after he offered me a hug.

"I want you to get back on. That's the only way to not be scared."

Minutes later he would suggest I lope her, the she-demon as I would later call her. I did too, pressing my heel into her off-side, driving her nose into the corner and sitting my ass to the saddle, knowing she'd be keyed up and ready to leap into her remarkably fast stride, a controlled gallop.

Seconds before the trail ride, I'd decided to wear a helmet, a decision that would later save my life. My head hit the ground twice that day, both on hard packed ground, not the cushy embrace of arena soil.

Fifteen minutes after the she-demon took off, galloping at near 35 miles an hour, a creature with her own mind, one that could trip and fall hoof over head at any moment, I held on, keeping my seat and the back pockets of my jeans to the saddle. I rode that gallop well, but not prepared and too tired for her when she stopped abruptly, dropping her inside shoulder so I slipped off her side.

When I finally got up, my instinct was telling me not to get back in the saddle that day, but the women told me to get up on the "safe horse."

I surmise that his second girth strap prompted him to buck as the strap slid back into the soft and sensitive spot on his hind legs and belly. According to other eyewitness accounts, I held on to the saddle horn, absorbing each buck until he unseated me, I flew through the air and hit the hard ground, luckily with my head protected by a helmet.

All I remember is one second I was on him and the next I was mid-air, my brain flashing to navy blue and then black as I landed. Seconds later I looked up at the grey sky and tears fell as I was terrified a second strike to the back might render me paralyzed.

Twenty minutes and two falls later, I could not sit up, and fire paramedics braced my neck and back, getting me on a stretcher and into an ambulance as I was rushed off to Huntington Memorial.

Up until that point, I'd never been on morphine, and an hour after being on the pain killer drip, I hurled everything in my belly. I had an IV attached to me for a few hours, sat on a radiation bed for x-rays. Nothing was damaged, just a bruised tail bone. Just?

Since then I've done a lot, but I've never quite gotten over that fear. I'll never forget the first time I loped a horse; one of the most freeing things in the world. The closest to flying. Animal and animal communicating, velocity and wind combining to create a sense of freedom.

I've been in the saddle a few times since the accident, and I've loped too, but I always have the fear. It's like the naivete that exists before your heart is broken for the first time.

All I can say is I'm still here. Decisions have become increasingly heavy for me to make, each weighted so much more than they used to be. But, I'm still here. I am afraid but choose to move forward, and despite the falls I've ridden again.

Dan H. Pink to the Rescue

In one of my previous posts, I claimed that Malcolm Gladwell is my prophet (Jesus makes the list too, although strangely or intelligently I remain irreligious). I must add another prophet to the roster: the author, Dan H. Pink.

Dan H. Pink, whose latest book, Drive, takes a question like "what motivates people, what drives us?" and turns the readers' world upside down with obscure, but scientifically derived proof; he shows that how we motivate people in school and in corporate settings, is just wrong.

We all know how business works; you go to work, sometimes accomplishing tasks you do or don't like, you're managed, you pass go, collect $200 (or more in a paycheck, if lucky) and hopefully you don't need a get-out-of-jail-free-card. No, but seriously, the concept is pretty easy. The lucky few are those that love what they do.

Pink calls this system Motivation 2.0. It's more complex than our basic needs of survival, Motivation 1.0, which include the need to eat, find shelter, get clothed and breed. Motivation 2.0 is all about carrots and sticks. You do something good, you get paid (a carrot) and if you don't do what you should you get a punishment (a stick). The whole belief that Motivation 2.0 works off is that people don't want to work, they don't want to be challenged, and that in all circumstances people will most often shirk from work and remain passive.

But Pink lays out a substantial argument against this. He claims that science proves that people want to be engaged, they want to work, they want to have purpose. We are not passive beings, but give us the right task, or allow us to take a task and complete it our own way on our own time with the people of our choosing, and you'll find that people are actually motivated to do that kind of work. Pink makes the claim that given the baseline reward--- a salary, a way to make a living, people are motivated largely by the type of work they can do. They are motivated when they can approach work that is meaningful for them, that is challenging and engaging. Workers in these circumstances typically bypass the chance to change work, even if it comes at a $10,000 or $20,000 bonus.

Perhaps this is why CEOs typically ask for more and more outlandish sums of money to do their jobs; the work doesn't engage them, or they didn't choose the work because they love it. Instead, they are motivated by money, and no matter what sum of money they are given, the money high wears off, leaving them still unmotivated and therefore jonesing for their next bonus increase.

I know Pink is right, and it's not just because he and his editorial team researched dozens of behavioral studies that suggested people are motivated by the independence they have in their tasks, the way they can get better and better at something, the purpose they find in their work. I know Pink is right because my hope everyday is that I will be compensated a living wage to work at a job I LOVE. The first thing I look at in happiness is not the dollar figure, but the work.

After all, if we all have to work to make a living and we give more time of our lives to work than to sleeping or making babies or chatting with girlfriends, then it only makes sense that our motivation stems from the ability for us to do what we love instead of making a shitload of money. The most precious and finite thing we have on this earth is time. How do you want to spend it? I bet most would find more motivation in spending that time doing something they enjoy than bringing home more money. I know I would.

Bring it on Pink! I call for you and Gladwell to continue researching about the ways we can make life and this world more happy and enjoyable.

He scowls at me, his brow furrowing, the faint crows' feet around his eyes showing more now.

"I don't like Portland. It's just like the Valley. The same people, the same young kids with the same attitude."

It shouldn't have hurt me, because I know what he's saying, and now that I've seen Portland with fresh eyes, I agree. But there are nuances here a visit of two or three days can't find. Or maybe the nuances are no longer here but in my mind and heart, when Portland had amazed me as a 17 year old, checking out the colleges I would attend.

In the face of the recession, the Pearl District sickened me, people sucking down $4 coffees as a homeless man stands outside of Whole Foods. Clothing stores that use labor in third world countries, but still charge Americans an arm and a leg for the products. A whole district built and gentrified from warehouses and skid rows, beautified by trees and LEED buildings, so now living becomes less affordable. Great. But on the verge of a pool of homelessness, where the homeless line the streets of downtown and Chinatown waiting for a meal or a handout.

It's not Portland's fault, because it happens in LA all the time.

Sometimes a city can give one person an experience it does not afford to another. Cities are fluid, ever changing and maybe we hit the city on a bad few days. Perhaps. But I here what he's saying and I agree. The same desperation, dirt and apathy abound from LA to a small rainy city up north.

Goodbye Portland

I'm listening to the melancholic organ line in the background of Justin Townes Earle's plaintive "Midnight at the movies" as I think about the past few weeks. I've traveled through Seattle and Portland with Andrew, showing him bits of me, parts of the places that have informed my life.

Portland no longer feels like home, although the verdant forests along the 205 stretch of highway into Oregon City welcomed me back to friends. I was taken aback about how the line between city and country was so vague in the outlying parts of metro Portland's cities.

My eyes are new to Portland, as I haven't seen it in over a year, and as I've just come from LA and Seattle, I see how truly tiny the downtown is. How truly tiny the city is. No wonder then, that in my senior year, before I'd even graduated and moved out, I felt the restlessness creeping up inside me. How did Portland hold me for a year? I'm someone who, on some days, finds the mass sprawl of LA boring.

Returning to University of Portland, walking around campus in the midst of spring time beauty, I hoped for it to capture me in some way. But it didn't. I didn't feel the emotional tug on my heart that I had expected even when I visited the spot on the bluff, facing the St Johns Bridge where I would look out wistfully to the river, remembering it as the place where I had a bittersweet goodbye kiss. The place where I wrote about my feelings, wrote about my fears, hopes, my changing life after graduation.

All I felt was a strange numbness, as if all the pain and all the happiness and pathos of the past years has dissipated, leaving UP when I did, so that now when I return, there is nothing but new people and new students. UP, and Portland, is no longer my place, and as it surprises me, it feels right too.

Thanks to Andrew's good job, vacation pay, and something called my federal income tax return, I was able to witness two people, a dear friend of mine and her fiance, join hands in marriage. This time last year I was dating someone who was not interested in a relationship and my friends and I were uncommitted to men. Now, I find myself in a relationship I thought could never exist, one friend married, the other engaged. What a difference a year makes.

And yet, I haven't really changed. I'm still too hard on myself, still restless and itching for adventure. Still somewhere between faith and doubt, anxiety and calmness and contentment and existential angst.

First Lines of a Novel

Real Simple magazine's May issue asked readers: What is your favorite first line of a novel?

Among them was a favorite of Andrew's and one that I admit illustrates Hunter S. Thompson's talent in 18 words.

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.

While I do not and never have condoned the drug culture, there is something very compelling about these 18 words, as if in so short a time, Thompson has shown himself to the world, not caring how anyone else feels about his lifestyle.

Here are some my favorite first lines from novels:

It is only at night that she has the strength to wander.----Lisa Carey, The Mermaids Singing
(The last paragraphs on page 340 of this novel are amazing as well.)

The widow Arden and her two daughters lived in a one-room cottage just outside the village of Mortlak, less than a mile from the Thames.--- Patricia C. Wrede, Snow White and Rose Red

Don't worry, David, I'm on my way.--- Spoken by Steve Earle and recorded in his biography Hardcore Troubadour: The Life and Near Death of Steve Earle by Lauren St John.

Although a good quote shouldn't need explanation, I believe the one above is the exception. Earle mutters these words to his lawyer or agent, who has brokered a multi-million dollar deal for Earle, despite the fact that Earle has fucked up his music career, upset everyone who's ever known him or helped him, and is in the midst of poverty, heading towards homelessness in South Nashville on account of his several-thousand dollar-a-day cocaine/ heroin habit.

David is waiting for Earle to make a contract negotiation meeting in New York City and Earle insists he's on his way, but he's nowhere near an airport. Instead, he's on the street about to get some blow or heroin or both, another attempt to slowly kill himself. All this, in two paragraphs of the biography go to illustrate just how a drug can ruin a man's life; how he can ruin his own with a drug.

Everybody lies---Michael Connelly, The Brass Verdict

Small Things

There's this concept, outlined beautifully in Malcolm Gladwell's book Tipping Point, about how little things can make big differences.

What if more people could grow their own produce, or afford the better, organically grown stuff served up in gourmet stores like Whole Foods? What if this led to people being a bit healthier, more immune to illness, and more fit? What if being more fit led to people exercising a bit more, increasing their "happy hormones" and being happier, calmer people in general? Could we surmise that there might be a bit less violence, road rage, etc? Maybe, healthier people wouldn't need so much insurance, or so many doctor's visits.

Here's another example. What if neighborhoods inspired beauty, even where low-income families lived? What if there were some vines, flowers, trees and grass to sit on? What if the Projects that might have inspired desperation and hopelessness, uplifted people a bit? Might they also feel better about themselves? More capable to improve their life's circumstances? What if these people got involved in community outreach groups that instilled lessons of self-reliance, hope, community and faith? What if these people inspired students and youngsters to stay in school, to go to the library after school, to get involved in their local neighborhood and city governments? What if these governments became more responsive to communities in need, and people didn't feel neglected? What if this all led to safer streets, where kids and adults could play and walk? Might these people also stave off the effects of obesity, adult on-set diabetes and other health issues?

Here's my point: what if all we needed to do to better the world was to keep at the smaller things. To attend to them carefully and with lots of observation. What if we could improve these things which would systemically improve other things.

I think we need to stop looking at life as if it were a series of lines; as if part A only affected parts B and C. Life doesn't work that way. I think life is more wholistic and connected than that. We need to start looking at life as if one thing affects everything else and vice versa. Part A affects parts G and Z of life. Changing one affects 30 other different life aspects.

I am a proponent of experimentation, study, observation and making little changes to lead to larger ones. Malcolm Gladwell is my prophet and I hope to practice, in some way, the concept that small things lead to a tipping point, a major point of change, where anything is possible.

Create, Preserve and Destroy

I am not an expert, or even well versed in the Hindu religion, but I do know that Brahma is the creator of everything, Vishnu is the preserver of the world and Shiva is the destroyer of all. All three are needed in order for there to be life and creation.

I am reminded of this tenet of Hinduism when I look at my room. I clean it, dust it, vacuum and arrange. I purge clutter. I am amazed when, months later, I still have more to purge (how is it possible for one person to accumulate so much?). The room is beautiful, tranquil and inviting. It stays this way for a few days, or if I'm lucky, a few weeks. Then, piece by piece, a scrap of paper, a receipt, two extra glasses on the bedside table, socks on the floor, shoes scattered about, the room starts to disintegrate into chaos. It gets worse until I think it can't get worse, and then it does. By this time I've spent days doing nothing but writing cover letters, resumes, article queries, ideas, blogs, emails, notes, to do lists and messages. Creation happens and it multiplies until it can't contain itself. And then the destroyer comes, when I can no longer stand it, I remember my mother's words when I get overwhelmed: pick a small corner, focus on it and get it cleaned. Then move to the next corner, focus on it, no distractions, until it is cleaned. Repeat the process.

I've created, I've preserved and I've destroyed this room time and time again. Or maybe it has created, preserved and destroyed me, thousands of times.

I'll have you know that were it not for Fleming's messy desk, his petri dish would never have laid hidden for the time it took to grow penicillin. The mess hid the dish, the penicillin grew, and now we have one of the most universally useful drugs in all of history. All thanks to a creative mess.

I believe my room shall create something worthwhile. It already created three more articles for the PW, for which I am entirely grateful. More creation, more preservation, more destruction to create again!

Things I've learned....

This is a list of things I've come to find out, learn or fully realized in the last few months....

1. Two years ago I bought a pair of Gap jeans for $50. They now have two holes in the thighs which need to be patched. Subsequently, because I've held on to these simple, waist-slung, wide leg jeans which now have holes, I have a pair of jeans that are now comparable to the trendiest $70 jeans at Gap. Sometimes it does pay to hold on to stuff.

2. A sign that capitalism only really works for those who already have money and is skewed toward the already successful, I've come to realize that even in journalism, it takes money to make money. You need to make money to live, but you need to have money to make money, so where do you get the original money from? Therein lies the problem.

3. Usually, almost without exception, the hardest jobs and the people who work in the hardest manual labor are usually the least compensated. Even a teacher, who although doesn't physically work hard, has one of the most important jobs around, and we all know that teachers are paid poorly.

4. Hand in hand with number 3- a person's earnings are usually equated with their worth as a human and in this society, but is often inversely proportional to the important and vital work they accomplish in said society.

5. I might have over watered some of the flowers I was trying to grow, but some of them are growing. My freesia is not straight but bends to the ground with leaves that are sickly and straggly, but the freesia is blooming and I now have yellow, red and purple flowers. Some of my rannunculus may have died, but I have a few hearty stems and roses have sprung from the ground when I thought they had died. These flowers aren't perfect but despite their issues, they've come to bloom as successfully as their prettier cousins. Likewise, I'm not the prettiest, smartest, wealthiest, most successful woman around and I know I've had my issues to deal with. But despite them, I still bloom quite nicely which proves you don't perfection or the best to do well.

RIP Portland Sentinel and Thanks for All the Memories

One day in June 2008, not long after graduating from college and in a post-college comedown funk I thought would last forever, I was scheduled to have an interview with Cornelius Swart, publisher and editor-in-chief of the Portland Sentinel.

I drove past a very dated building and as my stacked pumps clattered on the dingy steps of the Sentinel office I was more than a bit worried; I was confronted with a trash bin collecting rain water and exposed rotten beams and a hole in the ceiling made me think, "what kind of business is operating in such a shack?"

I wanted the internship with the Portland Sentinel although for years I had poo-pooed the opportunity. I wasn't itching to work for free as a post-grad but I count my time with the Sentinel as one of the best in my life.

It was important for me to impress upon Cornelius that I had a passion for writing he couldn't find in any other internship candidate-although my journalism background was in features, not hard news which was the Sentinel's main trade.

I went home that day after the Sentinel interview, crying and certain I had fucked up, illustrating how green I was, proving myself to be ill equipped to be the kind of journalist the Sentinel would want.

Two days later I jumped for joy when Roger Anthony of the Sentinel called me and let me know I was on board.

An amazingly hot Northwest summer ensued as did $4-a-gallon gas, economic and personal depression, but little by little I became the kind of reporter I wanted to be. I attended (and enjoyed) neighborhood association meetings, scheduling interviews with community leaders and activists, pitching story ideas and building a portfolio of well written news stories. A friendly community of writers and fellow post-grad struggling journalists embraced me. I was invited to barbecues and Friday evening beer get-togethers. And I look back on that summer, the toughest in my life, and thank the Sentinel and Mr. Swart and Mara Grunbaum and Roger Anthony and James Reddick and everyone for giving me a home and work when I most needed it.

In years past, aspiring reporters would pitch and pitch and write for scrap money at local community publications; they would cut their teeth on smaller media outlets working up the ladders to larger, better known publications. Being a working journalist has always been hard, but what makes this line of work one of the hardest is that local and small community papers are going out of business, leaving a hole where the ladder's first rung should be. I am so proud and count myself so lucky to have cut my teeth at the Sentinel while I had the opportunity and no matter what happens in my professional future, I will always have a portfolio of the stories I've written, stories I'm proud of, stories that show a glimpse of what it was like to be scared shitless, 21, post-grad and pursuing the thing that made me happiest.

Thank you to Cornelius and the Portland Sentinel for giving me the opportunity to start my career at an amazing and award-winning news outlet. Portland is a better city because of the Sentinel's legacy. I am so sorry that the Sentinel will no longer be reporting North Portland's news

All I can say is thank you, thank you, thank you.

Can I Hustle to Flow?

In my flowing I've been hustling half-heartedly
So can I hustle full tilt long enough
To flow?

Tolkein wrote, "Not all those who wander are lost." In this way I feel as though I wander sometimes because I want to and other times because I am lost. But I think that what we think of as being lost just means we are on a path that's hard to see until you're far enough along to look back and see where you came from. Only then, I think, can you see where you're going and that you are, indeed, on a path.

Feet have hit this pavement several times over
Car's driven past this spot too many times to count
And yet today
For the first time
I look down and see with all of my worry
This, transcribed in wet concrete that dried
"Don't worry about a thing,
every little thing is gonna be alright."
---Bob Marley

The Walrus said...

"The time has come, the Walrus said
to talk of many things:
of shoes--and ships--and sealing wax--
of cabbages--and kings--
and why the sea is boiling hot--
and whether pigs have wings."

---Lewis Carroll

Why start a blog this way, I cannot say, only that this childhood rhyme, which I used to read to myself out loud in a sing-song voice just came to me.

The time has come...perhaps this is why I chose the poem, for the time has come for me to move on from Los Angeles Magazine. A good internship I've had, and I'm leaving a sort of security net. It seems that making a choice between two important things has become increasingly difficult for me. For each road I take, I think of the other road's lost opportunities and awaiting gains. The idea that the road not taken may afford something better for me, which might ultimately change my life in a way I'd like it to, weighs heavily on me and the decision becomes more torturous to make.

I feel this way about LA Mag. I probably could remain an intern for a few more months, or even a few years, hoping to land a staff spot at the magazine. But, I am good enough to write articles, not simply fact check, and although the market may be the toughest it's ever been, I know I am a solid writer, deserving of pay for articles.

Where to now? I don't know. Am I scared? Yes. But here's at least one thing I learned during my tenure at the magazine: if you're not confident in yourself, why should anyone else be? If you're a horse you wouldn't bet on, why expect anyone else to bet on you either?

Why?

Why is it that once I've gotten in touch with someone seemingly non-judgmental, I feel nothing but inadequate? He says I can be as creative as I want. This should be empowering, but for some reason it isn't. Instead, I feel as though I have to live up to huge expectations, that I want to impress this person. Why? Not only does his personal philosophy eschew any need for judgment, but why do I feel as though I have to impress this person? Why is it that I feel I need to show him how far I've come, what I've done, who I've dated, so on and so forth.

Because he matters, my voice tells me. Because as much as I've always wanted him not to matter, to mean nothing to me, he will always mean something to me. He will always be the one I felt so much for. He will always be that person I wish I could have meant so much to. One begets the other; if you really dig someone you really hope they dig you too. And when they don't you spend too much time trying to figure out how you could strike it so good with someone if they weren't meant to feel that same way about you.

Miranda Lambert says it best when she sings "I hate you but I can't let go."

And that is the sad truth about the matter. No matter how much I try to move on with my life, he'll always be there, with his dark hair, lean frame and motorcycle leather. But I can and have chosen to move forward and other fantastic things have come as well. If he haunts me, I choose to have him haunt me as a ghost of the past instead of a memory of the present. After all, I have too much to do, too many things to succeed at and conquer. Too many people to laugh with and love. Andrew, that means you.

Crazy Heart Movie Review

I haven't watched the Golden Globes yet, but I can see why Jeff Bridges was nominated as Best Actor for Crazy Heart.

Everything about him, from his years-of-smoking cough, to his whiskey addled voice and the way he drawls--he embodies the perfect portrayal of the once famous, still talented, burnt-out country star he plays. It's a bit eerie how much he looks like a mix between Kris Kristofferson and Merle Haggard; that's precisely the kind of heartfelt, bad living cowboy crooner he's playing.

Maggie Gyllenhaal, who I've never been a fan of, was fantastic in the role of a free spirited, passionate woman tamed by her protectiveness for her son and let free by her love for Bridges' Blake. She is the portrait of a woman who is amazed and feeling too lucky to be loved by Blake, because her bones are telling her he's bound to hurt her. Love her he does...whole-heartedly, in a way that the audience knows is special. Hurt her, he does as well.

This is a story about the redemption and comeback of a talented has-been and Bridges plays it like a pro. Making the film that much richer is Robert Duvall playing Blake's friend and only permanent tie to the world. Any film with Duvall playing a cowboy or western cohort, is made richer by his presence.

This film is also a love song about country music and the west, as the camera lingers on scenes of blue sky, big white storm clouds, wheat and red canyon rock. "Crazy Heart" isn't bloated or too big, just on point enough with big actors who play it accurately and quietly, in a film about a man's crazy heart and the love that inspires his return to life and notoriety.

Sherlock Holmes Movie Review

I was raised on British television; I remember Masterpiece Theater, Diana Rigby introducing that night's mystery in her velvety tones and intriguing voice. I remember the really cheesy and low budget original Dr. Who with the fuzzy edged monsters. I was raised on Babar and Tintin cartoons and I'm always mystified that so many people mistake the boy detective of Tintin with the dog on Rin Tin Tin. No, they are not the same thing---go get yourself an Herge comic book and learn something from Tintin and his brave dog Snowy. I was raised on British productions of Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot and think no one could portray that detective better than David Suchet.

I was raised on British television. One of my fondest memories stems from watching the Sherlock Holmes series that featured Jeremy Brett. I have an extreme fondness for Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law, (something about them being great actors and my weakness for tall, dark and handsome men), but I wasn't sure I wanted to see someone else attempt to portray a character I associated so closely with the skilled arrogance and wise deduction of Jeremy Brett's Holmes.

However, I must say that I was pleasantly surprised by Downey's Sherlock. He's taken a page from Brett's book---Downey plays the character with a mix of conceit, arrogance, brilliance and social awkwardness. But Downey's Holmes is a bit more rakish; he deduces things about people Brett's Holmes wouldn't care enough about to even speak to. Downey's Holmes has a bit more warmth in his eyes as well. This new Holmes does not act as if Watson is a companion, but more like a best friend, a brother. And that's where the film's conflict comes from.

For Law's part, this Watson plays better than Holmes' sidekick; he's Holmes' adventurous equal--brave, strong, able to clock a man or two in the face. This Watson is also more fleshed out. We know about his engagement to a woman he cares for, and how his curiosity leads him into dark corners and dangerous alleys with Holmes even though he knows there's a good woman and warm household waiting for him.

If you haven't seen Sherlock Holmes and you think it might be your type of movie, or you're not sure if Downey and Law can pull off the first dynamic duo---go see the film. I'll warn you it's a bit long. But if you're down with a little occult mixed in with your crime mystery and thriller starring two great actors in beloved roles, you won't be let down.

"Revolution" by Miranda Lambert

When I'd first read previews of Miranda Lambert's latest album release "Revolution," I wasn't sure this "softer, more feminine, more well-rounded" Lambert was one I was going to like. Soft? From the woman who blazed into Nashville with the Steve Earle sound-alike-tune of Kerosene; that song where she growls "light 'em up and watch them burn." It was this very harshness and brashness of the Crazy Ex-Girlfriend that I liked.

And by the way, just so you're clear, I am so enamored of Lambert's strong voice, style and boldness that if she were my guy's crazy ex-girlfriend, I'd want to knock a beer down with her, lean over and kiss her, all the while being terrified of her vengeance. Make no mistake, when it comes to Lambert, I'm an unabashed groupie.

The real shocker of "Revolution" is that her softer, more wistful songs of which there are a good handful on the album, don't detract from that wild, brazen, fun-loving blonde we've come to admire and fear. Her sweeter, poignant songs enhance her personality as if to show that within a lioness lies a lamb and the heart of the lamb is as fierce as a lioness.

The same strength of character a person needs to make country music on traditional and pop-driven Music Row all while singing about burning tradition to the ground is repeated in songs like "Love Song" and "Makin' Plans." Are these softer? Undoubtedly. Amongst beautiful melodies Lambert knows herself well enough that she can sing about that strength of her relationship...."I'm not easy to understand/ but you know me like the back of your hand/ I'm your girl and you're my man." And in "Love Song" where she knows that sometimes the truest signs of love is when her man knows when to hold her when she's crying and she knows when you love a man, sometimes all he needs is some space.

Her brilliance for wordplay doesn't falter especially on her tune "The House That Built Me." Returning to a childhood home with a shattered sense of self, she revels in finding who she is; houses are built, but this song emphasizes how sometimes, a home can build a person.

Okay. Now that we've established her soft side isn't sickening, but strong in its vulnerability, I must return to what Lambert does best-singing rollicking songs to the gut. In her rougher-hewed album opener, "White Liar" she adds a twist to the story. Yes, he's a white liar and she doesn't understand. But Miranda, fed up with the lies of a bad liar let's him know she's vindictively been lying too.

When "Only Prettier" starts with a hard pounding guitar, thrashing drums and a fearsome scream--you know she's having fun when she's telling "high life people" she's just like them, only prettier (and cooler). She gives this same strict crowd a good one-two when she reminds them in "Heart Like Mine" that if Jesus could calm storms and speak of eternal forgiveness, He would be the perfect person to understand a rough heart like hers. Yes He would, and we do too.

Buy her album, turn it on, listen through, and you'll come to love Miranda more for her personal revolution.