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Like grandma's chicken soup...

The power love has to comfort you when so much seems to be stumbling is immeasurable. 


 I wish the sky would stop crying. I've had too much heavy news the past few days too greet it with a smile. 

It's Pride!

Okay, so it's been a crappy rainy weekend in Portland - incredibly unusual this time of year - but HAPPY PRIDE PORTLAND!

I bow my head to all of those who rose up at the Stonewall Inn in 1969.

Thank you.


Happy Father's Day

To the few dads I have who read this, HAPPY FATHER'S DAY. 

To any of you who are Godfathers, HAPPY GODFATHER'S DAY. 



Last month we flew to Denver for my niece's graduation. Somehow in my preparation for this I decided it was time for a change. So I trotted off to get a haircut, then came home and trimmed off my fuzz. You may like it, you might not, but it does make me look a lot younger (I think) and if nothing else, seeing about 150 kids in a school flip out or try to figure out what was different was worth it. How many of you can claim you disrupted 4 classrooms simply by walking by with a clean chin? LOL



Ospreys, X-Files, Summer?

Thought 1: The ospreys are nesting. Even walking through a parking lot it's beautiful hearing their cries to each other as they mate up and build their nests in the lights high above us.

Thought 2: I'm finally going to see the X-Files TV show. Matt and I are on episode 4. You have to love that Netflix is accessible through the Xbox.

Thought 3: For the first time I've expressed the weather in Portland could eventually force me to move. I know that the last three months in Portland have been a fluke - some of the rainiest, coldest on record. But it's flipping June and we've barely seen the sun and only one day this year have we hit 80 degrees.  

Thought 4: Going hand in hand with the weather, it's impossible for me to know if my growing depression is weather based or if it's my medications failing to work as well. 

Next up...After almost 5 years, Tommy's goatee is...GONE!



Today's weather, the dappled light through green trees, and all the flowers...this is why you fall in love with Portland and never want to leave.

Open Wide...

Sitting in a dentist chair for 120 minutes is like giving a 2 hour blowjob without any reward. Fuck my jaw hurts.

The elephant stopped by this week...

 Written in the 30 minutes before class on January 13th...

     The elephant stopped by this week. He didn't wait for an outstretched hand of welcoming; he just came in, pulling me to the dance floor without hesitation. Despite my reluctance. Despite my...or maybe because of that, because of my exhaustion. Helpless, I held onto his trunk, let him guide me to the floor and spin me - spinning until I could no longer stand. 

     It's what he wants. It helps him pull my legs out from under me, watching me collapse, crumpling down onto my back...waiting for one long, strained exhalation before I see his smile. It's then that he comes to stay. Not pulling up a chair, but settles in, pressing all his weight onto my chest, smiling as I give up pushing him away. Laughing to himself ever so slightly when my arms fall to my sides and I begin to wheeze - fumbling for pills and inhalers that lay just out of reach. Sometimes he lets me grab hold, bring them to my lips that splay like a fish trapped on a sun-bleached line. It's all a ruse. By this time what he allows won't help. It's too little too late. Yet we still do the dance - our macabre tango that we've been doing together for 32 years.  

     When doctors said I'd outgrow him he came more often. I'd find him sitting in the corner of my room when I tried to sleep. I played games to stay awake, knowing when my dreams came out to play that he'd sidle up next to me and pull me from heroic adventures and into the empty circus tent with a broken calyope and a lone spotlight. An abandoned big top with no one to scare him away, to banish him with a flash of light or some weapon - something that wouldn't kill him, just stun him long enough for me to flee to another land, unreachable in my dreams or where I woke. Helping me leap safely across the river that barricades admission to his tent and watch as bottles and containers break open, spilling pills and vapor that would disappear into grey, murky depths.

     But that will never happen. Not in this lifetime. He's here to stay, even with knights that ride in on horses that live in cold rooms with white lab coats, blinding lights, and enough needles and machines that in my fear let the elephant dance heavier, mightier on my chest - letting him give me all he can before doctors are able to keep him at bay once again. Even if it's just for a short time.

     And so again I submit. Helpless. First to his great shadow, then to the light. I expose skin to needles, swallow magic potions and pills, breathe though tubes that fill me with dust and mist that carry prayers between the droplets. Medicines that keep me alive.

     I've watched as he's reluctantly been forced from me, changing as he'd adapted to the many different drugs over the years, testing the waters, seeing how far he can push me. When I was 10 he almost went too far. The needle sunk into my arm and I couldn't breathe...at all. The medication hit my heart and was too much for me to take. I was too young. My heart stopped. Terrified of dying with me, he leapt from my chest, allowing the grace of God and the frantic work of men to keep me from the sleep I feared the most.

     And so we continue the dance.

     Thankfully the times I'm the one refusing to cross the river and pass into his tent are more frequent than not, but this week he came to the dream and pulled me with him; spinning in a blur of games he denied me playing, animals I had to shy from, stresses that help him take hold of a weakened boy, a fighting man.

     When I woke he was sitting atop me again. His back turned. All I could hear was the the rustling of an occasional page..... He was reading. He was here to stay. I just wish I knew how long.



My asthma has really been acting up the past few days. Feeling the elephant press down for a stay is stressful, unnerving. A most unwelcome guest.

I hate the power worry and helplessness have over me. When I'm unable to help someone I love cheer up or be still, I spiral. Maybe that's the definition of being codependent, but I'd rather care too much than not at all.

Last week's writing class reassured and reaffirmed my writing is still...not sure the word. At least meaning that I still have the ability to move people to thought. It's also good seeing people I genuinely enjoyed sharing our work with.

Guess I should get back to work.


Dog River Hike Peak

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October 2010



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