I didn't know how free I wasn't

It's like that hill on a giant roller coaster: even strapped in and definitely along for the ride you still want to scream for someone to halt the throttling jolt of those last few feet and whisk you out of your seat.

But it's too late.

You're in and you're going to dive.

And dive and dive.

Mere hours from the first minute after take off I sit in what was my little slice of solitude and look around at the parts of the walls where my paintbrush went awry. It's so special and yet so foreign. And it's no longer mine.

And I'm still not quite sure if I really want to loosen my grip.

What if my parachute refuses to open?
What if my peanuts don't satisfy and I starve to death at 30,000 feet?

I don't care.
I'm going to jump into the fiery sunset and swim through the golden clouds of potential.

I am the only albatross in an abandoned chevron.
And I am painted with the starlight and hopes of too many years of restraint.

And me?
I thank me...



...for finally letting me go.

My last night of work in Portland

Whenever I start a job I make a point of ignoring the fact that one day I'll quit the place.
I feel it allows me to invest completely in becoming an integral part of whatever endeavor the position plays into while simultaneously giving me the opportunity to see it as the best thing that ever happened to me.

Of course, with time any job sours and fades and becomes just another menial method for making ends meet. Even so, tonight after finishing my final shift as lead server at Departure I was on multiple occasions brought to the point of brimming tears.

There was Sheila telling me she would miss me, there was the kitchen staff unanimously proclaiming me a pleasure and honor to work with, and finally standing at the edge of my manager Ron's desk I simply said, "well, this is it."

This really is it.

I'm one day out from flying into the morning sky with nothing to guide me but a generous helping of common sense seasoned with an indomitable spirit and the hope of a new beginning.

Still I wonder: who will I become? how will I evolve? when will love happen again?

Such beauty all around

Following last night's festivities I must say that I have never felt more loved.
The mere mass of the crowd cramming themselves inside the walls of the Aalto Lounge might only be rivaled by the mass of clothing and books I spent half the day cramming into my suitcase.

This whole process of preparation is something I've always hated.
I just don't like feeling like I'm working at something that will take numerous different installations of time and energy to finish. That's most likely a large reason why I sometimes find my writing discipline to be so piecemeal. I just want to sit down and pump out a whole novel instead of letting myself get distracted and lose my train of thought.

Even so, the fast approaching departure date no such luxury.
I will not be dissuaded from my fastidious devotion to being absolutely and one-hundred percent ready.

The moments where I take the time away from folding, stacking, and zipping to do something other than obsess over which shoes I ought to take and which ought to go into some haphazard free box are growing less and less undefined. I have so many people to see one last time, so many restaurants to visit for that final bite of Portland gustation, so many sites to touch in memory of past experiences.

This evening I enjoyed the tremendous privilege of dining with my favorite professor of my entire college career: Jil Marie Freeman.
This woman holds the single most influential position in my academic life next to my mother...and I was homeschooled.
We enjoyed a lavish meal at Beaker & Flask (incidentally my new favorite Portland Restaurant) along with numerous stories, laughs, excellent points of discussion, and let's not forget the cocktails and wine.
It was a regular barn burner to be sure.

During one of our multiple smoke breaks (no, she didn't start my smoking habit, that was all me) I took a moment to soak up the glory of the moment. The chill of the wind, the pleasantness of the evening, the quality of the company, and the joy of being in the midst of all three simultaneously.
It was nearly impossible to fathom the perfection of all of them in combination.

Jil provided me with the affirmation and encouragement that only a person of profound intellect and genuine influence could. Her willingness to listen to my anecdotes, her clearly thoughtful response, her generosity (she insisted on picking up the tab), and her fantastic enthusiasm for the food and drinks: all were integral parts in what comprised the ideal evening of attentive and intentional blessing on my coming days and feats.

Such beauty all around.

Released to my miseries

This evening I had my first official cry.

I was driving through downtown en route home from selling my books at Powell's and eating a solo dinner at Clyde Common when I came face-to-face with the fact that quite soon those streets would no longer be mine.

It didn't help that Broken Social Scene was playing and all I could think about were the words, "now you're long gone, got your make up on and you're not coming back, don't you come back."

Saccharine as it may sound I feel like I'm losing a part of myself in abandoning this concrete village. I spent so many childhood nights desperately wishing to be a part of whatever was happening a midnight in a place where buildings had more than four floors.
Having lived here now for the last three and a half years I couldn't say when it was that I finally realized I belonged here, I was a member. Even so, it happened and it mattered and now I'm intentionally walking away from that.

Yes, this journey is necessary, these changes rich and beautiful.
But I will still hearken back to this berth whenever my mind takes me to that dark place that says I am no one.

Now with fewer pages to carry and fewer days to wait I am preparing myself for the inimitable jolt that will be the first firing of that passenger jet engine. And for all of the new tears.

Nearing the sweetest cliff

It took me until today to completely realize just how relieved I am to be fast approaching my last days at Departure (and hopefully in food service altogether).

The unpredictable hours (not to mention wages), the asinine clientele, the maudlin remarks made by pathetically vapid nouveau riche: it all sickens me and consumes me at the same time. I feel as if the energy I have to contribute to the world is being wasted on a daily basis.

If I were to be allowed even the briefest vacation from my "real life job" I would see myself blossom in ways I couldn't even begin to fathom. I just know it.

And right now I sit on a bare mattress in a dirty t-shirt dead sober and entirely too wound up to sleep.
All because of my damn job.

I pray to whatever forces are at work in this muddy orbiter that I'll be afforded the opportunity to step out of the service industry entirely.

And meanwhile salvage what's left of my soul.
And hope.

It's happening, it's really, really happening.

This is the first time my worries have burrowed so deeply into the pit of my stomach that I feel like I swallowed a giant rock.

Having spent a really lovely morning with Lucie Berjoan et al., a splendid afternoon with Ben Bruce, and a nostalgic evening with Ryan and Sharrie (and Nehemiah, the crawlmaster 3000), I am finally back in my apartment and feeling more than a little spastic.
My core is all wound up and my limbs feel like itchy Jell-O. I can't seem to achieve any sort of relaxation much less focus.
I want to start sorting through my books.
I want to practice packing and make sure I have enough room for the necessities.
I want to go to Soul Night and enjoy an evening with my friends.

But I feel like a bird who just sipped too much champagne: it's only a matter of time before my innards inflate and explode leaving fizzy stains all over the walls and floor.

I keep trying to calm myself, to reassure myself that everything is working out incredibly well, to soothe the tension out of my bones.
Maybe I just need to stop.
To be silent.

I don't even want a cigarette even though that's supposed to be the immediate go-to of a stressed habitual smoker.

Deep breaths.
I need a lot of deep breaths.

The Night of the Towel

How grateful I am for lovely times with lovely friends.

I am at present house sitting for Marc and Floyd and as such have been gifted with the perfectly timed retreat: a respite granting me the wonderful ability to escape the spin and clash of Portland life with a provincial calm.

Last evening I was accompanied by Taylor who always seems to be a quietly strong leaning post, a listening ear, and a fellow thinker.
We sat in the hot tub until the wee hours discussing how our minds work in both similar and contrasting ways. I love him quite sincerely and have no end of gratitude for his presence in my life.
May it be one of lasting and ever-growing inclusion.

Tonight the scene was a bit more cooperative. Kat, Eva, and Carrie all spent the evening with me, a vegetarian pizza, several garlic bread sticks, and a bottle of pinot noir (it tasted of wild, grassy, late Summer sunsets and thoughtful rainshowers on hot bales of freshly harvested hay).
No sooner had the four of us arrived we all clamored to get into bathing attire.
Imagine the excitement when we all realized we had coincidentally chosen black swimsuits.
Imagine the face of the pizza man when he was greeted at the door by eager smiles, bare skin, and svelte abdomens.
He had trouble keeping his thoughts entirely holy I'm sure.

We made two rounds of soaking and countless topics of conversation the ingredients for a perfectly delicious night and by the time it was all said and done we were cuddled affectionately together on Marc and Floyds enormous king sized bed watching I Love Lucy.

Throughout the night I kept considering just how ineffably lucky I was to be surrounded by such beautiful, bright, bombastic women. It was as if I couldn't help but constantly notice what it was about each of them that made them so special to me.
Kat with her impish smile and little artist's hands.
Eva's juggernaut humor, perfect limbs, and contagious alacrity.
Carrie's big brown eyes, beautiful spirit, and ready laugh.

It was all so incredibly perfect.

We spoke of birds exploding from the ingestion of champagne, whether or not "butthole" was one word or two, and the contemporary phenomenon of the Towel.
You've never heard of it? That's alright, it's really no big deal, just vintage and esoteric. Hipster really.
I miss the Towel.
I don't know if you're aware of this (it really doesn't matter) but I was actually the one who first discovered the Towel.

Anyway it's over now.

I've driven Kat and Eva to their respective homes and returned to my quiet borrowed nest.
I procured Carrie from the living room couch where she'd fallen asleep prior to my leaving and tucked her in for the night while I stayed up just a few moments longer to record these thoughts.

Reflecting on the whole evening I would have to say that this was one for the mental scrapbook.
I'll doubtlessly think back on this night for many years to come.
The Night of the Towel.