This morning, 9:30 a.m., my grandmother called. I was still in bed, drowsy and reluctant to fully wake after finally dropping off at 3. Still, a weekend-morning call is unusual enough in my world that I sat up and listened to the message, just in case ( Read more... )

So, I've been seeing Molotov around lately, for better or worse. Actually, I've been seeing her around the dishwasher, where she pokes her nose out before she makes a run for it across the kitchen floor, to Spit's food bowl, where she pulls out exactly one kibble then dashes back home to eat it. Several times an hour, in the middle of the day, ( Read more... )

Today started out wistful -- for a sunnier day, for something definite to do with it -- and ended up satisfying, because I solved a problem that's been bothering me for a while ( Read more... )

Last night I saw the documentary about The Gits at the Clinton St. theater. It was strange to sit in a theater in Portland, 37 years old, and be thrust back to one of the major events of my twenties, the murder of Gits singer Mia Zapata in Seattle. So much of the footage -- shows, people, places in Seattle and the way that they were remembered (" ( Read more... )

Strangest, most unsettling, and somehow best dream this morning: everyone was with me in it ( Read more... )

For the past several months I have been embroiled in a near-constant conversation with myself. At some times it is more quiet than others, intermittent whispering rather than the cacophony I awoke to this morning. The conversation can be stripped down to this:

Am I leaving?
Yes I'm leaving.
Why am I leaving?
Because it's time.

( Read more ... )