Leap Day

Back in the Ann Arbor days, the early 80s, when I was doing a lot more writing, I composed another front stoop poem, on a strangely warm, sunny day at the end of February. The house on Bath Street was perched next to a woody ravine on a dead end street, surrounded by bungalows with rampant herb gardens. Purple sage can survive a cold Michigan winter, shrinking under the snow and waiting for spring. I sat on the listing plank steps with my face to the sun, and waited for the clear sign of what to chose next for my life; go to Florida and a new life, or stay here and find another job. Re-reading the poem, I knew I had already made up my mind, I was going to go, and I'd never sit in the warm sunshine in late February on these steps again.

Waves of that day came back to me this morning, walking downtown and seeing clumps of drowsy purple sage next to gray lavender and blooming rosemary in a large planter. What was a complete anomaly in Michigan, is a normal winter's day here, and I much prefer it this way. I can sit on my stony concrete steps with my face in the sun in late February in this place, on these steps, and it all comes washing back. That I am finally back in school, dealing with the Biggest Incomplete of my entire life, but outwardly doing much of what I was doing back then in Ann Arbor, is kinda funny. Almost like the last 22 years didn't happen. More and more, it even feels that way.

To some, this may look like Being Stuck. As in, "Ma'am, it's done already, move on, get over it, drop the baggage!"

And I reply, "That's what I tried to do those 22 years." I did the Job Thing, the 'My Beautiful Career' Thing, the 'Serious Adult Relationship' Thing, the Survival Strategy Thing, and even the Not-Caring Thing. Years and years spent in the wilderness. One or two major choices I may have done differently, looking back, but if presented with the same circumstances, my path would probably look much the same. I mean, living in a condo on Highland Beach, Atlantic Coast South Florida for free for eight months at 24 years old---who is going to say, "Uh, no thanks, really, I much prefer my unheated room in a run-down house with flaky roommates in a Michigan winter, a chronic respiratory illness and being unemployed,"?

Today was the first time since that last day at the B-store that I walked past my old workplace downtown. It felt weird. Past the bank where I spent so much time each weekday afternoon waiting to make a bag of deposits, past the parked FedEx truck of my old driver, with a ticket on it (as usual). Past the mall, past the Russian 'kofe' place, smelling the Mexican lunch place; how many hundreds of times did I make that walk, but veer left to the wall of glass doors? Today, I was smiling and just kept walking past, towards the river, towards home in the middle of the workday with my class notes in my book bag. No big deal, I know, but for a fraction of a second I was time traveling, 22 years, then 13 months, but also into the near-future. Because Portland is the place to navigate from, for me, and no condo in a warm place could change my mind. PSU has no clue what mad power it has to change the stream of Deep Time.

Casting a Spring Spell

Daphne, violets and trilliums. Crocuses, narcissus, daffodils and camellias.

Standing in the full sunshine, facing south in a sheltered spot, it feels like June. Then, step into the breeze that's wafting all that perfume towards you, and it's a gentle mid-50s, your black t-shirt soaking up enough warmth to keep you perfectly comfortable sitting out in front of Stumptown Cafe on Division this afternoon. Or Common Grounds, or Fireside, or Javaman---or your own sidewalk stoop. I won't wave at you, I don't want to disturb the vibe we're each riding, I know what listening to ancient French court music in the sun while inhaling fresh violets does to me, I can imagine how amazing your trip is right now. You still have the laptop open before you, but your gaze is a million light years away.

You can stop time, for a little while anyway, by taking a deep breath and releasing it like an evaporating shadow, and disappear along with it. Then just pay attention to all the wonder flowing along around you, over you, through you like a smooth rock in a strong river. Like the faint mandolin floating from somewhere, the violets again, the bus and the dog barking, the bell on the cafe door, your coffee keeping your palm warm, the sun through your eyelids, a crumb of that scone on your lip melting yum, skateboarder growling past, that guy must be playing mandolin on his porch----

Hours can pass this way in clock time, but you've just enjoyed a lozenge of eternity that will remain in your neuron memory the remainder of your life. Sometimes the moment feels like an illuminated spiders web humming, or cool damp and comforting beach sand when the waves rush out again. Pick your talisman, they're your treasures.

Repeat often, as necessary, wherever, whenever you are

Memoirs of a Slacker

A strange kind of weekend off, for a student person. The big lead-up to my Friday morning exam was all consuming this past week, cramming, making study-guide outlines, craving that "A". By 11:10am Friday, I was free, and felt just like I did after driving away from Pioneer Place Mall for the last time with my car loaded and no 'God' key on my keyring anymore, just over a year ago.

The sun was even out, it was about 50 degrees, and I had nothing pressing at all. My term paper wasn't due for two weeks yet. I stopped by FedExKinkos and got the artwork for it printed in color from my flash drive, and it wasn't even noon yet. what to do, what to do, what to do?

Caught the bus home, bought some beer, walked Miss Daisy Bassett, and basically goofed off.
It is a weird feeling, to be a "grown-up" and know in your head what you should be doing, or could be doing, and still just slack like you were born to be one, because nothing is a crisis right at the moment. I like this.

So, being the adult, I am spending a part of this afternoon being responsible, doing laundry, reading over my art history research notes for that paper, running over to New Seasons for a couple of things, but I may just be getting better at time management after all. Or getting better at power-slacking; like power-napping, in the right amount at the right time, I feel like I'm getting away with something. Or taking art classes, leaving the library with a $200 book on the history of still-lifes, and it was okay to do that, too.

It all sounds so silly, I know, but I just thought all of this was going to be so much harder than it is, and I had that idea since I began thinking about going back to school in 1986, 5 years after I had had to quit. The cost, the job-juggling, the shitty local Florida college, the re-locating to one I would want to attend, the relationship, the commute, the age difference, the unmet expectations, the Magic Golden Perfect Job at the end of the stage when I got my diploma, the debt to repay, yadda yadda yadda. It was all too much. Abandon ship! Just get a job and work your way to some mid-level with some insurance and make Life be about something else. Don't listen to that little voice going on and on about dreams and being real, get real about paying the bills instead.

Also, now is just the right time, it came together without the moving of Heaven and Earth effort it would have required before. There was some noticeable remorse when I was sitting in that room of my peers at the Anthropology Dept. lecture a few weeks ago---they have their Masters and PhDs already, shit, I'm still just an undergrad---and it did feel crappy. It really did.
But I realized I'm not interested in excavating all my regrets and reasons, it would take a long time and just make me feel worse, so don't do it. Keep moving--- advice I gave friends and employees for tough times, just keep going forward. Take naps---my other bit of advice. Put on some great music and something will surface. Lay in some snack-age, frosty bevs, and chill. Take a long brisk walk, come home to a hot shower, then snooze for 20 minutes. Then---get back to your task. Or not. slacker

The Unswept Floor

When the 10' high image flashed up on the white screen at the front of the lecture hall, I experienced a moment of utter delight and the thrill of seeing why Art is so crucial to education.

This is a mosaic on the floor of a Roman villa, in what was a sumptuous dining area with reclining couches for feasting, and this charming floor to toss your lobster shells, peacock bones, sea urchin spiny shells, bruised olives, lemon rinds, etc. So it all would blend in with the tromp l'oeil cast-offs already tiled with faint dimensional shadowing beneath your chaise. Don't hit the mouse.

So I think at least 50 of my cohorts in the ancient art history class are ditching their previously researched research topic for something as fun as this. We'll all say the same thing 50 different ways, our poor professor. She'll regret slipping this slide into the lecture, it wasn't in the textbook.

So maybe some more art history classes for me are in store, I am really enjoying this one, and there are specialized classes spending an entire term on one era or cultural movement, not just a week like this Intro class. Romanesque, Ancient Near East, Ancient Asian, Islamic, Renaissance architecture...if I only have 54 more credits to fulfill my major, I'm going to need some electives.
Honestly, I knew I'd like this class, but I didn't know it would be this much fun. Mosaic artists do their modern version of this, with RedBull cans, cigarette butts, gum, lipstick, underwear, dust bunnies, Cheetos---the average dorm room floor. Mine would be books, magazines, cat toys, recycling in the corner, bus tickets, shoes and bookbags. This type of art is basically a snapshot of popular culture of the time---Roman villa to PSU dorm floor. Full circle.

Sunbreak Photographs

Wow---

Is this a great town, or what?

I took this from a bus roaring over the Morrison Bridge this afternoon, what an amazing view!

All the rain we had, I knew that the mosses would be peak with the sun sneaking out now and then, so I was disturbing the homeowners hanging out on a Friday afternoon, "Who is that taking pictures in our front yard?" But look at those pussywillow shots, can you stand it? Got the curly willow at Kath & Harv's, and the extreme plush velvet at Matt & Emily's. They weren't home.

Six-and-a-half weeks

I'm sitting here with the Spring term course schedule already.

This is week 6 of the Winter term, half over, midterms behind me, I shoulder the bookbag up and down the hills filled with library books loaned to me from all over Oregon about the ancient Hittite Empire, the Research Paper to write, then only the Final Exams ahead.
Afterwards, the 10 days off before Spring term starts on March 31st.

What do I need to do to retrieve my photographic memory of the first lap of my schooling? Only needed to read something twice, and I not only could remember it for exams, but could visualize it on the page. Before anyone calls out the AGE card, I think that the working world had it's own level of memorization requirements, as in unpacking 150 cases of books and remembering that in the flurry of sorting them into storage bins whether the third Spiderwick book came in and whether it was in paperback or hardcover. And how far back in the bin you stacked it.
So my memory skills were merely redirected to assist me as a customer serving boss instead of a student (or singer of rock lyrics).

Six weeks in, and my stair-taking is less embarrassing, I know which of the busses running through the fare-free zone stops have a drop-off stop at PSU (Portland, she rains) and which cross-over bridges between buildings are enclosed so I don't have to passively smoke a cigarette or two on my way to Neuberger Hall. If only there was one to the library...

I love that library. It has that mid-century smell that I remember from before the digital age and it comforts me when browsing through the stacks and finding an irresistible book on 1930's Mandarin Chinese poetry in translation, or repaired bindings on 100 year old books so they can still be read. Libraries are treasuries, attracting serious students, snoozers, and today a table of fully chadored young women playing with their cell phones and giggling when a young man sat down at their table. BTW, the Hittite books are fascinating, how am I going to narrow down which works of art to compare for the paper? I love these kind of dilemmas.

But I need a new laptop, clearly the 2003 Sony is so slow and noisy and almost 9lbs, it's not going to be hanging off my shoulder on the bus and throwing out the other side of my lower back. There have been days when I've come into a lecture hall and the whole back half of the room is wall-to-wall upright laptops, and the pitter-patter of Apple keystrokes has become just as integral to the lecture as the whir of the slide projector over my head. Free wi-fi access is everywhere on campus, so I could work on my online research at the table by the window with my hot organic coffee gripped in my hand, then speed off to my next class. I get a student discount if I get one through the online Apple Education store, or I can check Best Buy, but being able to carry around my files and add to them while on campus will really come in handy. As Steven would say,"Well, some bitches better get a job!" I'd rather get a grant, and shake some Apples loose from the money tree. Some bitches get wicked crafty...

My neighbor John was snickering at me today, he's a retired teacher, that I'm just so happy to be doing what I'm doing, loaded down with books late in the afternoon, coming home from the bus. Sometimes I feel seven years old again, can't wait to break open the books after class and mentally run like hell. There is nothing else in the world I'd rather be doing.

Archaeology is a Contact Sport

Who knew? I thought it would be a bunch of wonks, Star Wars alumni, Tolkien freaks, time travelers, anti-Indiana Joneses, Outcasts of the Curious Anachronism Society and RenFest drop outs. Well shame on me, although I'm a tad disappointed to see that they seem to look alot like me, except for the manly men with earnest expressions and one or two with Merlin beards. At least here in downtown Portland, it isn't a Summer of '69 reunion either attending the Anthropology Department's "First Thursday" Lecture event at 4pm yesterday afternoon. Of course I was going to go, and it has nothing to do with the extra credit essay, because the topic was establishing a Cultural Resources Preservation Program for the City of Portland, to enforce the national, state, county and municipal historic sites' laws as well as bringing it to a higher profile in the community.


Honestly, I was stunned. You mean Portland doesn't have this already? I thought. You've got to be kidding me.

The presenter was Wendy Ann Wright, a PSU student in the Anthropology department, a Powells Books alumna, mom, and passionate member of Sam Adams' staff at City Hall. OMG!!
What better person to catalyze this idea in the city, and she had a great slide presentation of the research she's done in other cities nationally, to find models that are community-based and effective already. Again, I sat there looking at her slides of St. Mary's Academy Wall demolition that she may as well have downloaded from my blog, as well as hurried excavations of privies and Chinese cemetery graves with a row of bulldozers and backhoes hovering in the background.

Portland doesn't have this in place already? I can't believe this! When she concluded, my hand shot up. "Hi, I'm really uninformed about the whole City permitting process, but everyday I see the progress of the building project at the base of the Hawthorne Bridge, and they're already 50 feet down---before the contractor started digging, he had to find out about gas lines, water lines,
how strong the soil barrier is between the hole and the river---I would think historic maps of municipal locations are available to check this just like the gas and water companies survey and OK going ahead with excavating, right? Couldn't a City of Portland Archaeologist or Historic Site Manager Office be layered in here at this point so at least within the city limits sites aren't just plowed up?"

Well, she mentioned the standard fire maps, and archived city maps, but no, there isn't really anything like this in Portland at this time, it would be a budget issue certainly.

An older gentleman stood up. He was concerned that there was a punitive attitude coming off of archaeologists and site preservationists that would actually have the opposite effect of discouraging people from coming forward with asking for site assistance if an artifact showed up in a shovel of dirt or their basement bricks collapse and there's old bootlegger paraphrenalia falling onto the floor. Why couldn't the utilities and industrial corporations be asked to underwrite some of these efforts and also cooperate with the city in recovering some of their own industrial history and be seen as caring about the community preservation movement instead of being told to absorb the time and costs of investigating sites all over the city? He started out seeming a bit hostile to Wendy's anti-looting attitude that makes all collectors and antique markets suspect, but she was able to agree with him and turn his question into an approach almost everyone could agree with. She said there was an African American Art exhibit that Sam Adams' office was involved in that had had an antique bottle collector involved, but he pulled out after getting some flack from the archaeologists in town about his collection being "looted", which in strict trade terminology means removed from its historical context (or dump pit). It is a comment on we everyday townsfolk that most of us need to be educated that saving a cloudy antique bottle (it's blue and says 'poison', cool!!) from your backyard compost pile of 103 years ago constitutes "looting". But it is. Strictly speaking. Even if you own the property.

This is where the contact sport part comes in.

Needless to say, in Wendy's research to find a working preservation model that has widespread and cooperative community involvement, she finds that there are plenty of struggles with individuals' and commercial property rights when it comes to designating something 'historic' or a 'cultural resource' , and different cities have varying levels of success with this issue. She mentioned Alexandria, VA and Vancouver, WA as two cities with viable programs and great community involvement and support. These agencies get the kids involved with introductions to archaeology with a "kids dig"; artifact copies that the kids get to use methods of excavation to "find" and analyze. Also, many Native American Nations are active in community awareness and education to preserve sites and ways of life, often coordinating with municipal and county agencies to work with the public and commercial interests. Often, she said, there are laws in place already that are poorly enforced or thought of as arcane, and educating officials about these laws would be a place to start with raising preservation with the public.

There's already a faint sound in my head, "You should do this, you love Portland so much, what a great project this would be to get involved with and help launch!" I haven't had a huge ambition in a few months, it's about time to have a new one, isn't it? Halfway through my first term, after 25+ years out of school, and already I'm the department expert in my own delusional brain. Too funny, isn't it? And the fact that these "First Thursday" Anthropology lecture attendees are about my age, already have my interests, and go to a pub afterwards to eat and drink and talk shop would be the perfect arm-twister to get me to keep going. And earning extra credit. And blogging about it. Until maybe I finally dive in and present Sam Adams with a plan.

Politics and Real Life

I have a mid-term tomorrow, so this will be short.

My dear friend Jolie took her 13 year old daughter out of school last week to go to a political rally at Denver University, knowing the experience of 'politics as rock concert' would have a lasting impression on her youngin', and here she is. (they grow up so fast)

She shook Bill's hand, and took pictures of him going through the reception line. Jolie was so proud, and happy to be the shining blue light in her red state neighborhood, and that her daughter got the political bug of how important this election is in her lifetime, and to be aware and awake for it while it's happening. Talk about handing the torch to the next generation, Ted Kennedy's got nothing on this one.

I stayed home from an Anthropology Department after school lecture on 'Myth-busting CSI Forensics' to watch the Clinton-Obama debate last Thursday live on CNN, and found out the next day that the lecture was packed, and the kids in class didn't even know there was a debate or who was debating or that only two Democrats were left in the race. I already knew that no one under 25 listens to the radio anymore, which guarantees the final death rattle of neo-Cratzies talk radio shows, but other than Obama buzz online, the GenYers don't watch news or CNN either. No newspapers, no radio, no landline telephones, no tv news---we're undergoing a complete media revolution and over 40 people don't know it yet. The campaigns who 'get it' will lead the way to the political future and everyone else will be wondering what just ran them over.

I'm watching the bug-eyed furious conservative 'faith' party implode because a reasonable man who wants to work with Democrats will win the nomination, which is another example of how crazy this 'moral majority' crap is and that it's finally drawing to a close in the light of reason. This new generation who loves Obama won't fall for this line of narrow exclusionist thinking, Rushbaugh can fade away with Cheney and the rest of the Nixon/Reagan interns and we can get on with leading our country into the future. It's a nicely odd feeling when I can choose between a black candidate, a woman candidate and a white republican I respect in a presidential election, and they all have an absolute chance of winning, AND will all work together after the election. I have hope again.