Monday, October 31, 2005

Mask-burning Party

Best friends are as much a matter of determined self-revelation as they are favor and destiny. How can people know you unless you show yourself to them? Though there are some things we will instinctively know about each other, how sweet is it when one offers you freely what is on his heart and mind- to raise another up, not merely for the purpose of pushing her forward but in order to hold her face to face. Yes, how much more frightening than monsters or ghosts of the past, how intimate and terrifying in the deepest sense, and yet how rewarding. This is what it means to truly be alive. How often we simply eat in the presence of others, high towers prevailing to keep us apart, rather than to truly dine with our friends. Such barriers secure us only from the prospect of truly living. It costs a little pride to call out, "Wait for me, please, I'm just behind you!" But then we can all go together. To steadily lose a sense of self-preservation in the presence of friends, to care no longer for trying to appear a certain way in the eyes of others, is to be free to give and receive love for who you really are, no longer stooping to hold up a puppet in your place. The patience and persistance of one of my oldest and dearest friends is what enabled me to finally burn many of my masks, but even with the sincerest graces of others to fall back on, it is still a difficult choice. Self-revelation is not something one can force on anyone, nor would it be nearly as valuable if one could. There is perhaps far too much emphasis placed on the chemistry of friends and lovers than on the necessity for a continued mutual revelation between them.

Sunday, October 30, 2005

Fraidy Meow!

We had a pumpkin carving party tonight, and I made a meow face. I can't take complete credit for it, because my mom did help me with it. The problem is that I ate some raw pumpkin, not knowing that you're only supposed to eat it cooked, and consequently felt nauseated by the smell of pumpkin innards all evening. :o(
Below are photos take by the camera on my phone, so they're not very high quality. First is the pumpkin I carved and second is the next door neighbors' six-toed kitty cat. It's the meanest little thing. I tried to pet her, and she fratched at me with her giant paw. I've circulated pictures of this meow among my friends, and one remarked that she appears to be "an ill-tempered creature." This is true.


Saturday, October 29, 2005

Rx: October

Any pizza with chicken on it demands to be eaten with ale. This public service announcement comes to you courtesy of miss coffey's kitchen. I've had the loveliest October that a girl can have and am ending the month with autumnal cleaning, fresh pillow cases, and a Jane Austen novel. I've danced in piles of yellow leaves, walked through the organic market, played some poker, visited my favorite winery, had lunch with my sister and her babyloo, and thoroughly enjoyed my work. And I am happy to report that at all times I have been safe without harm and healthy as a ten year old kid. Not believing that I could live without a certain hat-wearing gentleman of yesteryear, I spent most of August crying myself to sleep every night, distilling a more potent version of myself in the bitterly wept tears of a silly-headed maiden. The fleeting heartaches of youth quickly reacquaint a person with the value of surrender. Twas the witch's message to Dorothy in the sky, was it not? :o)

My October wine recommendation is the The Rocca delle Macie Rubizzo Sangiovese with pasta, cheese, steak, just about anything. It's extremely versatile. I had it with the seafood portofino at the Olive Garden when I went with my sister, at the recommendation of a sympathetic waitress who shared my strong preference for reds, even with seafood. My sister, the pop culture lovin' mother of a dolly-faced pincess, ordered Chateau Ste. Michelle's riesling and found that it was more sweet than any she'd ever tasted. I found it to be slightly unpalatable, definitely not something to be had with a large lunch. But to each her own. I was shocked out of my mind to discover that the baby loves Eggplant Parmigiana. It is a little known fact that fondue is the way to my heart, and my niece acted as though she was doing me a favor by eating the little bites of it that I fed her from our appetizer. But then again how could she know how I feel about fondue? She's going to get spoiled rotten. :o)

So afterwards we paid a visit to the Hauer of the Dauen, which I learned means "the first light of day." I like that. Officially they were closed for tasting, but I hunted someone down and purchased the wines I wanted for our Thanksgiving feast, and then we headed back to McMinnville. I feel like a kid in a candy store being so near to all of these vineyards. What am I going to do when I no longer live in the Northwest?

Saturday, October 22, 2005

proxime accessit

Sky is calling to the steeple
As it echoes out my name
I can hear You in the air I breathe

Spanning the years that have come and gone
You roll like the ocean underneath the sun
Weaving my soul to the Holy One
Weaving on and on with love...

-Michelle Tumes "deep love"-

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

evidence of fratching!

Okay, so today Dixie (my mom's cat) fratched my arm and it bled! :o( I had to use two bandaids.


And secondly, it's autumn now, and we can wear striped stockings. :o)

Sunday, October 16, 2005

Reading Lolita in Tehran

Book Reveiw Time. Yay! I recently completed Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi, upon Marion's recommendation, and I absolutely loved it. It's basically a short memoir in books of an Iranian literature professor. She taught in Iran during the revolution and was forced to leave one of her posts for refusing to wear the veil. After that she began a little book class in her home for some of her female students to study the forbidden western litarature. This book is the coziest autumn read I've had in a long time, and at the same time is highly educational about Iranian culture and history. Nafisi has an intuitive grasp of what it takes to write good fiction, though her story is real. When he first told me about this book, I didn't think it sounded very interesting, but he compelled me to go get it. I couldn't have been more pleased. I think you'll enjoy it, too. Plus we're in the middle of the month of Ramadan, and you need to know more about Persians. :o)

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

the winemaker

From time to time Safeway has incredible deals on the mainline brands of wine and a few local makers as well. Ours sells the Duck Pond's Pinot, Chardonnay, and their Columbia Valley 2002 Syrah- which was of special interest to me and also on sale. I couldn't resist throwing it in the cart with the cat litter and ice cream for which my mom had sent me, suddenly plunging back into memories of last winter. The first time I had this particular wine was December 2004 when visiting the Duck Pond Cellars on my birthday. At that time I declared that this was the wine that I wanted at my wedding, or at least a pony bottle by my bedside. Inky, bold, metamorphic, I found it completely tantalizing and still do, to Marion's amusement. "Here we are in territory famous for pinot and you still manage to fall in love with another syrah..."

Last December, my boyscout and I set out to educate ourselves about the finest pinot noir in the world, venturing off to most of the main vineyards in Dundee and several obscure, off-the-road wineries. One such small place was called the Hauer of the Dauen. We were both attracted to and curious about the name, laughing about how ominously it rolled off the tongue. As we pulled into the gravel parkway, there was no ostentatious display, no fancy tasting room, just the naked operations of wine-making. The cellar master was there in the room with all the oak barrels, though you would never have guessed by his coveralls and soil-covered hands that he was the man in charge. I loved him immediately. He was sensitive about the soil in a way that only a winemaker can be, and he spoke to us about how he was one of the only ones in Oregon who attempted to make Gewurztraminer. There was nothing pretentious about him, nothing that would distract from the beauty of what he was creating. We saw only the painting, and the hand of the painter never intruded to ruin the magic. His pinot was some of the finest I've ever tasted. It was raw and edgy and bore the unique personality of the cellar master. Not everyone was guaranteed to like his brand of viticulture, but then again he wasn't mass-marketing his wine. He made it, because it pleased him and grinned happily as we tasted. I nearly cried. We left with several bottles and an experience that would forever change the landscape of my palette.

February was our baptism into bordeaux, when I flew to Paris to see him on his break from touring Europe. The first time I was in Paris was a brief excursion with the co-leaders from the DTS that I staffed, Yasuko, the sweetest Japanese woman I've ever met, and Maida, an Egyptian woman who taught me that living in the joy can be even more difficult than learning to trust. We wandered Parisian street markets with our cups of hot wine in one blissful evening before catching the train back to Geneva. But this time I had two weeks, and I was with my boyscout, the man whom Maida's wisdom had prepared me for, and though my whole world was in his eyes, I found renewed energy exploring the sites of Paris. Every day we tried a different bordeaux, gradually learning which vintages were good and which were better left to other buyers. It didn't matter that it was mind-numbingly cold that time of year, because the adventure was more than experiencing all the bordeaux anyone could wish for. I was getting to know my long-time American friend on foreign soil, coincidentally the same soil that produced bordeaux renowned the world over. I still harbored a secret allegiance to my hometown pinot and bought a French pinot just to compare, but it didn't hold a candle to Oregon winemakers. "We already knew that," he said. I just needed confirmation, and though I felt triumphant, it was my pleasure to discover again what was always evident. My tongue fell in love with the fruit of the soil that was dealt to my corner of the world.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

you should know better

Some mornings begin with the sound of the alarm clock, insistantly beckoning you back to consciousness, like someone carelessly flipping on the lights after a movie. Much preferred is waking into the safety of your salutation. You woke before me. You were already driving through the day, while I slept to the rhythmic clicking of the turn signal. Answering the phone out of a deep slumber, I hear a voice far away saying, "Hello, sleepy," and I smile, though not quite awake. It's you, and I want to be awake now. For the past few days, every night in the shower and every morning upon waking, this song has been in my head...goes like this... I am fed up to be your twin brother- you're not my sister. And every time I think of that I want to, I want to say to you, I want to talk to you, When I look into your eyes, I see a yellow butterfly...

Saturday, October 08, 2005

animus

I went for a run in the rain today in order to satisfy my body's demand for a fight. Perhaps you know that point where you feel as though you're going to puke and then shortly thereafter follows a nearly impossible sense of well-being, the colors of grass and sky suddenly spilling more vibrantly over the landscape than you noticed before your moment of exhiliaration. I find that focused thought is often the byproduct of such activity. Some people hate to hear that, would love to believe that any positive effects of exercise are all myths. My goodness, you'd be surprised. And all the while America is dying of heart disease. I'm baffled by how frequently newspapers and other periodicals will hail mentally retarded people as "our local heros" or the wheel-chair bound artist as a role-model. Nobody aspires to that. It's a freakin tragedy that anyone has to live with impairment. America doesn't seem to be able to recognize true heroism anymore. When she does mention fallen heroes on the nightly news, it is accompanied by the not so subtle hint that "We at the network think this is such a senseless waste of life, but you should know the names of America's fallen." This is an erosion of honor and completely undermines what the sacrifice was for. Don't even mention it, if you're going to do it half-assed. This is the worst form of gluttony- to view liberty as something merely to be ingested, enjoyed, and taken for granted. Guess what, lady, the man who beats you isn't your hero.

See me jump through hoops for you
You stand there watching me performing
What exactly do you do?
Have you ever thought it's you that's boring?
Who the hell are you?

I am extraordinary, if you'd ever get to know me...

-liz phair "extraordinary"-

Monday, October 03, 2005

Scarecrow ESB

Saturday I worked at the McMinnville pregnancy center, because their director was out of town for a conference. Though it was relatively quiet, I still found my mind tossing and turning and kicking at the covers, so afterwards I headed to McMenamins. First I walked a few blocks down to scout out the location where they have Texas Hold'em tournaments around here. Unfortunately, it's not in a cozy pub atmosphere, but I'll still go check it out anyway. Sitting alone in a booth next to the window, I ordered a pint of their Scarecrow ESB, an amber ale with a bit of a bite to it, and a cup of African Chicken Peanut Soup. After about 20 minutes of watching colored leaves float down from the trees nearby, my lips started to tingle, and I wanted to be outside. While there I noticed two things: One is that Oregon people are fond of pea green attire, and the other is that McMenamins has mustard made with Terminator Stout. Both of these things made me smile.

Eyes still salty and sore from unfavorable relations at home, I drove back to what is not to be referred to as "my place" anymore, and I couldn't get that old Natalie Imbruglia song out of my head, the one that goes: Illusion never changed into something real. I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn. I don't even like that song. As I was driving, there appeared around the corner a rainbow against the backdrop of dark and white clouds, hanging fantastically low to the ground. The whole scene looked as though it might burst into tears at any moment. So I put on running shoes on and ran around the track for a mile, took a shower, and cooked up some chili before it started to rain again. Slept far too late into Sunday... Dreamed about being stuck in some alternate dimension of time, my only chance to return being in the creation of a portal from the other end, if only they knew... Ah yes, here is your chance to ruthlessly mock my childhood affinity for Star Trek. :o)