New Year post part 1

As it is the new year I feel obligated to write a new blog. I feel oddly like walking into a wreck -- a Lucky Wreck, as Ada Limon might say -- but a wreck nonetheless. My mom will say I am being negative as always, such a drab thing and maybe I should try looking up and seeing the beautiful ice-blue sky that was out today, cutting the edges of the trees and sky scrapers like glass or that knife my dad found that was uncommonly, dangerously, sharp for a flea market knife. But still, this is a year of wonders, it opens like the hand of a magician, who is either holding in her palm a scorpion or an orb or a plain juggling scarf. I will be graduating from grad school with an MFA - a terminal degree in essentially nothing anyone cares about. I have no job, at least no job that pays enough to survive. The house I live with my little utopian Pittsburgh family is apparently killing me and my jaw feels like it is bound to fall off some day soon. Its hinges are broken (literally). So where will I move, come this spring? What will I attempt? A PHD program, a teaching job? Will I stay in Pittsburgh, in the USA? No body knows and it presses against me like people in a crowded subway. My arms hurt. I've been doing Power Yoga and using a Balance Ball and have been running and eating cookies and blow/spit all this yellow mucus out of my face but I still can't help feel like I'm losing it a little. My unemployment runs out in three weeks and I don't qualify for the extension of benefits. Bummer. My ears hurt and won't stop ringing. I feel like I'm under water. I bought Seinfeld Seasons 1&2 on dvd (box set #1) a couple days ago for $10, used. Impulse buy. Soupie and I spent Christmas in Florida with my crazy family, as a trade off for my spending most other holidays with his crazy family. But we all love each other. That crazy love. Family love on some ends. Endlessly romantic swooning injured beach love on another end. Soupie can't ride his bike or walk far, otherwise I would say moonlit bikerides along the river love, or walks in the woods love or long distance 55 miles in the snow and cold on one of these icey clear days love. For now it is domestic and infatuated love, which is just fine.




For all the feasting of the past couple months of birthdays and holidays and finishing final projects, I've been trying to ride my bike more. Rode a 20-mile mountain bike ride in the mud called Punk Bike and won a stage (sorta). Have been riding most days to Mount Washington for work when I get up early enough. Would like to get out more but Soupie knows all the good road routes and I don't really like riding them alone anyway. So I have been running in the woods with the dog and trying to stay in shape somehow. Don't know if it's working. My face hurts. Evan's coming home. Time to go back to the Cookie Party.

dreams she had before she died

two nights ago, I don't remember.



Last night I dreamt I was in a big house with a lot of friends, mainly friends from Hingham but lots of others as well. Chrissy Victims was there, as a vampire. Everyone lined up and Chrissy got in front of us and started talking about a game he wanted to play. Laura, from Rob and Charlie's in New Mexico, leaned forward and looked at me and she was some sort of monster, maybe a zombie. She didn't look totally monstrous, but her hair was messy and there was a crazy look in her eyes. Which was possibly scary than if she had fangs or something. Anyway, when Chrissy started talking about the game he wanted to play, most everyone walked away so it was just he and I. The game he wanted to play, which I suppose I had no choice but to play, had to do with throwing hue objects around the house that sort of floated as we threw them, we if we were on the moon and could throw things like pillars but they did not move quickly. My goal was, I think, to throw them at people who Chrissy had turned into vampires or people otherwise turned dangerous. At one point, Major Tom was chasing me into a room I'd run into and I slammed the door on his front legs and muzzle. There were a lot of people in the other room and for some reason having to do with the game, I kept slamming the door on the poor pup. Frank, from Boston Terrier Rescue, showed up and took the puppy away and gave him to a woman who took care of him. I saw her with him with bandaged legs and nose, holding up his front side. he ran away when I approached him. Later, I saw him and he seemed a bit better, and later still I saw her at the park and she was having doggy lessons with him, and he was running relays around a cone with a ball in his mouth. I asked her please if I could have him back and he came up to me and cuddled like he ususally does. I told her I am not a dog abuser and have taught him just about all the tricks he already knows, and I would continue taking lessons with him and send her photos every week of how good he's doing. She agreed, but said she would stop by every so often to make sure.



This afternoon's dream, when I came home from work feeling achy all over, was also weird. My dad had disappeared, and I was searching for him all night after being out late and finding out. When I finally got home (which was no house I'd ever lived in), both parents were sitting in easy chairs and my mom said a woman had retrieved him. It was the same woman I was trying to hunt down to see if she could help me find my father. My mom said to go upstairs in the neighboring building to find a man who could give me her address or number, there was an office up there. So I went and it was a dance studio like the one in my gym, and there was a guy there getting set up to do yoga so I pulled out a mat to join him and ask questions. He kept doing harder stuff and looking at me funny, but I just went along and did the same sort of thins. Then a guy set up next to me and somehow got it through to me that he wasn't a yoga instructor as I had thought, just a dude working out. We'd been doing push ups with claps in between and stuff. It was around 5:30 a.m. So I pulled my mat away and kept doing push-ups. My body was so light the push-ups felt weird. More people kept flooring the room and walking around me and when I got up and turned around, it was a school cafeteria. There were all sorts of people, like everyone I've ever known was there, just about. At one point Sheryl walked by and I wanted to talk to her about the strangeness and my missing father who was found by an untraceable woman, but she just saw me and looked at her watch and said, "well I suppose it IS getting late, isn't it! My how time flies." And walked away, as if I were some sort of time marker who was there every day at the same time. I walked further on and there were girls from my highschool who started talking about how they used to always pick on me but how i was really cool and they tried to pick on me again and they blew pixie sticks in my face and I blew them back, then walked further down the cafeteria line and Jim Sullivan was there. I don't remember the rest of it.



I think I have the flu. Everything aches real bad. skin, joints, bones, organs, everything.

Gettin' Old

I've been holding off writing a new blog because I keep waiting for a new thing to become come to completion, while another new thing is birthed.



I am re-listening to Obama's speech right now (and still, again, when he said "Ann Nixon Cooper is 102 years old" I could have sworn he said "Anderson Cooper" the journalist). While I predicted something like this back when Bush was first sworn in for presidency in 2000, it is still hard to believe. Driving through the suburbs of PA, OH, and WV over the past few months on my way to bike races and campgrounds, I thought perhaps we were just doomed. I hope now, that he is as good a president as we all think he can be. I was watching the election with some anarchist friends, and one of them said, "I don't vote, I'm an anarchist." And I thought about Bush Jr. before he was a president. We burned effigies of him in Boston Common -- I remember building a great one in an alley across from Finagle a Bagel with John Haugh and Ben Weiser, we must have been about 17 or so, maybe 16 -- before the execution of a teenage boy. The fire department came and kept putting them out, and we'd light them again, and they put them out. I skated home and by the time it was dark out, it was raining. A Krishna friend picked me up and we drove home to the sound of chanting and the smell of dead flowers and I watched the clock tick past the time they were to execute the kid who was younger than I was. Bush never saw those effigies, though, and he wasn't moved by them, wasn't compelled to change or rethink that maybe the whole world IS watching, and maybe they don't like what they see. The news only reported a bunch of pyros almost set the Commons on fire, and that was about it. Anarchists or not, I think there was an activism to voting in this election, a way to say to the people who have been running our country corporately or politically or ideally (with their own ideals), that no, we don't want that anymore. We want the exact opposite, in fact. And there are a whole fucking lot of us.



Also, I sold the Olmo. Harold the bike, named upon his death to me. I sold him to Matty Smith in New Mexico for $1,000 (well, shipping was $50 so really $950 I guess). I loved that bike. But as all things change, it was finally time to pass on that part of my life, a generation of myself into the hands of another. I bought a Bianchi "San Jose" for $350 with the money: a single-speed cyclo-cross bike. The gear is still high, but it has brakes, can hold a water bottle and fenders, and I can ride it in the dirt. I love this new bike and think we will have a lot of fun together over the years. Jose reminds me to enjoy the ride, pedal hard but don't wear myself out because what is more important than me? It reminds me to get up on that curb and ride through that field, commute through the woods and coast, baby, coast.



In the meantime, Soupie's been having a real hard time riding lately. He can tell you about it in his blog, it isn't my story to tell. But it is in that we cannot ride together so much anymore. There is a horrifying potential for no more late-night rides to the north side to look at the city from afar, no more rides through Bloomfield and Greenfield in the wee hours of the morning for a great view and a cup of coffee. No more day trips far out of the city, 75 miles in the dead of winter just for the hell of it, just to feel our legs move and that gruff whir under our bodies. He's finally started stretching, and I suggested adjusting his pedal clips on his shoes. Hopefully with the combination of the two, he will be back in action in a week or so.



So I have been riding by myself. I went for my first solo mountain bike ride ever, just a few days ago. It felt great, actually, riding by myself. Riding my speed, the trails I want to ride. I even did a lot of things I don't have the courage to ride with other people. I fell a few times, but it was rewarding. I met up with Alan, one of Evan's older co-workers, after I'd been in the park for about two hours. I rode with him and his friend for another hour or so. We re-road Nature Trail, my favorite, and I endoed at the bottom of the big descent at the bottom. My right leg it swollen to all hell. A section of the trail i usually perilously walk down with my bike, I had ridden it for the first time earlier in the day with success. I was starting to chicken out again with people watching, but knew I could do it. I'd done it before. I do more dangerous things on my roadbike, and out there in the woods there are no cars to run me over afterwards. So I tried again and wiped out at the end. It was getting late, so I ended my ride and headed home to the dog and iced my leg until it was time to pick up Evan and go to the South Hills to take care of some paperwork regarding a new car (more on that in a second).



On top of that, the Camry broke down. Fine for me, as an individual. I love riding my bike, I can ride it everywhere I need to go. I work almost 15 miles away and commute the 5 big hills by bike most days unless I am running real late. But now we also have the dog and can't leave him alone fall day while we ride our bikes over an hour into the suburbs and hang out for another few hours and then ride the hour home. We need to take him to the vet, or to Evan's mom's house, and the car helps pick up his giant bags of dog food and our groceries. We could probably even get away with not having a car for this reason, especially since we have the baby trailer and could get a bob trailer for a lot less money than a car is. But we also love road trips. The reason I loved my bike so much as a kid was that I could hop on that little black demon and ride to the playground at school, or to a friend's house, or to that killer icecream stand in Weymouth. I liked my bike and my skateboard and my rollerblades because I could just GO. I didn't need to wait for a ride, or ask and hope for a ride, or worry about parking or anything like that. I went where I wanted to go, when I wanted to go there. Now, we are older. Sometimes we want to go places further away and sneaking on a Greyhound is a lot more expensive than it used to be.



Really, the world just isn't the same anymore. One day, a person wake up and thinks, Hey, I'm old. Or was it, Hey, I'm not so pissed anymore. A number of things. When we fall in love, a part of us dies to create space for this new thing that suddenly seems more important. Only years will determine what had the right to house itself in me all along. The anger I dismissed, or the affection I let in. Hopefully, it's the latter, even though it means settling. Not for something less-than, but a settling in, like a sore back into a comfortable chair. There's that part of me that still relentlessly wants to keep walking, but that comfortable chair, just like the San Jose, says, it's ok, sit for a while, relax.



So we got a 2004 Scion xB. Traded in the 1994 Camry for $1200, and now Soupie and I will have this car together, paying it off little by little, knowing we can use it to help us carry our loads, and we can count on it to start when we are too tired to ride, or too impatient to walk. It gets 35 miles per gallon on the highway, and 31 mpg in the city. It can go 100mph (at least) without feeling vulnerable. We are happy with it.



While I lament, seemingly endlessly, my old life of galavanting and wrecklessness and chaos, I am exhuberant about this life every time I go to class and talk about writing. My poems are critiqued and I feel like a human or more. I can't be a teen forever, but I can be a poet and resist in a way that still fits me.



I don't want new material things. I don't want gadgets, or new clothes, new fashions, technology, hype. I don't want to spend my money on all that garbage. I don't want to spend my money on hairstray and makeup either, whether punk or not punk, and I don't want to go through the hassle of stealing because getting caught is such a drag and I've been done with that crap for years now, practically a decade. I don't want to wear uncomfortable shoes or anything else that makes life hard for me. I want to wear cargo shorts and a hoody and ride my bike around in the woods. I want to nap with my dog and eat pizza with Soupie and go to a show every so often with all my friends together, dancing.



Dillenger 4 came through recently. I missed their show with NOFX, but the next night there was a cover show for them and they showed up and played a set and it was one of the best nights I've had in Pittsburgh. Certainly the most fun I've had at a show since leaving Boston. I missed that feeling in me, and was ecstatic that it could be sprouted in me here in this city where I've formed a home.

So, love really does conquer all. It conquers too much time on my hands, not enough time on his, moving in and out of spaces, trying to fit into my cubbyhole space in our universe, plaster dust, a sleepy town with friends who all live pseudo grown-up lives with houses and babies and their own lives to deal with. Love conquers mood swings, incommunicativeness, overwhelming cravings for icecream, sprees of depression, homesickness, wanderlust that adds to the depression due to lack of money to wander, and money problems. It's a nice feeling, though it drives me crazy sometimes.

So I've been going to the gym every day to counter-balance. On a good day, I do two hours or so. A half hour on the eliptical (how many miles is that?), a half hour on the tread mill (about 3-3.5 miles) and occationally a bit of time on the stair thingy. Then an hour circuit in the weight room with vertical curls (I think that's what they're called, the sit-ups you do when you are laying on a bench that is at like a 90 degree angle), the ab weight machine (I can do sets of 70lbs at this point without feeling bad), the thing that does the shoulder muscles and the triceps I think and I'm wicked weak at it, the one that does the inside of the legs, and the one that does the muscles along the spine, then some more sit-ups and occationally I will go into the dance room and hit the punching bag for a bit if I'm still not tired.

I feel great most of the time, even though for the past few days I've been eating total crap. There were two free meals at school, a party at Dingle's, a party at the St. Clair house, ice cream with Ovens' brother...But it's important for me to get out there and burn off steam and stagnant energy.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow when I start my internship at Autumn House Press. It's a 10 mile commute each way, and the press is on top of a huge hill called Mt. Washington. It's a doozy of a climb but I am excited for doing it three times a week. On the days I don't feel up for it, there's the Incline which is like a giant elevator that goes up the mountain, but hopefully I won't need that.

I just talked to Lauren on gchat and she said she needs more books because she has a reading coming up and wants to send a few copies to Earl and Merle in Trinidad. There is a possibility of their wanting to schedule a reading with her, in which case I will get to go back there as her publisher. Hurray! It wouldn't be for a while. But there's a jazz festival happening there in April and maybe they could be scheduled around the same time as each other. I mean, the reading could be scheduled around the time of the fest. I could really use a vacation, it's pretty clear that I need to get out of town, but at this point, time's been pretty wound down to where I need to do things (i.e. I wasted the summer), and I don't have any money because I am in the midst of paying for this upcoming semester. Total bummer. But if there is a prospect of heading back to a tropical paradise, then that can keep the wind in my sails for a while. Plus classes are about to start back up. I will be busy again soon and not so crazy. As long as I keep grinding away at myself in the gym, I'll be alright. Just keep on truckin' right?

Time to go feed the dog and get ready for my test ride up Mt. Washington with Soupie so I can figure out where the hell I am going.

the little squash

I was supposed to race in the women's crit today. My first race ever. I raced once in second grade and came in third, but it was one of those races where you have to balance an egg in a spoon and jump around in a big itchy sack without getting pissed and calling quits to go eat more pb&j, and I raced a few times in fourth grade when I was the new kid at the public school in my town, and when we got in from recess I would jog towards the door and these stupid kids would try to one-up me, which if you haven't understood by now is impossible, so of course some days I would just plow through the field of kids and make it to the door first, and then once I found "cool" (I actually remember the day I became cool, it was late in fourth grade and I was sitting on the swing set telling stories and just got on a role and everyone started gathering around me to hear my tales, and then this one girl started giving me a hard time because she was one of those friends who also hated me, I hate those people, but anyway I stopped her in her tracks by telling her, her name was Jill, to "go suck an egg" which I'd heard in Dick Tracy, and everyone laughed and I was able to carry on with my lessons of fate and morality) they would occasionally run after me to try to beat me, but then I would just stop running and maybe would just turn around all together because I didn't even give a care.

I have also pushed myself to go faster than arroyo mutts or Liberty Ave cars. But other than that I've never really raced in my life. Today it started raining through, about an hour before the race, and it's still raining now, and I figured the last thing anyone needs is a rookie showing up to ride with all her might and no skill or plan of attack, in a big pack of women, on a slippery-ass track, thus wiping everyone down and perhaps gouging someone in the throat with a handlebar or a chain ring.

So I stayed home and napped and made calabasitas for Soupie when he gets back for winning the big bicycle race, or at least the version of it I could make with the ingredients I had at my disposal. Zuccini, corn, muenster cheese, red onion, garlic, jalapenos, oil, salt, water. I thought I had a hooknose squash, but I don't. It's all steeping in a pot now, drained and trying to not cool too quickly before Evan gets home.

The last time I made calabasitas was with Anita, at Jaime's house in Belen, just outside Albuquerque. It was a great night. Anita and Cedar and I made food, Jason and I hung up tarps to help keep the music from blowing away. It sounds crazy, but unless you've been to the desert you may not understand the winds there and how they can suck away sound. (Insert awkward story that begins with a bottle of rum, intercepts with being put to sleep in a truck, and ends with Krispee blueberry pancakes, and perhaps a few nods in the direction of friendship love. It's for another entry.)

In the kitchen, however, it was sort of the first time I saw Anita as not a partier but as a caring person who took drugs because she was in pain, and who did not abuse them and saved her party drugs separate from her pain drugs. She was good at making calabasitas, and good at teaching me, and at giving me things to do to keep me from feeling as awkward as she instinctively knew I was capable of feeling. She wasn't drinking that night, and she wasn't wearing a two inch long skirt or a tiny made-to-fit tank top with a ton of belts. Just shorts and a tshirt and a black denim vest. She looked comfortable, which meant she was sore. This is when it clicked to me that Anita was dying.

The first time I met Anita was at Jason's house when he and I first became friends. She came in wearing the tiny outfit mentioned above, small even for her teeny body, hyper and ant-like. She made comments about gross movies she'd seen and bands who'd traveled through who she'd recently acted as groupie for.

"Woooaaahhh, who was that?" I asked Jason, not knowing yet how I felt about her.

"That's Anita. She's my best friend. She's going to die soon, it's sad." He explained to me the gout she had bulging out the side of her arm, how her kidneys have been failing, how she is the most beautiful person he knows. "She can just sort of do whatever she wants, because she has to, because she doesn't know how much longer she has. It's inspiring but, fuck, you know?"

"Yeah."

So Anita and I, both being Jason's good friends, became friends ourselves. She lived in Albuquerque, and every time we'd head down there we'd stop by her place. She always had some story that is too much to explain on here, and anyway not my story to tell. But the thing about Anita that I always forgot at the punk shows where she'd play games such as "smell my finger" was that she was a genius. She read books on math and quantum physics for recreational reading, while she was just sitting at home, and tutored kids in math for money.

I dunno. This story isn't really going anywhere, by now the calabasitas have long been eaten, and she was right that the nonvegan recipe is much better than the vegan recipe Jason and I used to make (he wasn't vegan, just a sympathizer). Of all the friends and relatives that have died, though, her story feels the most tragic. She died young and there wasn't much she could have done to prevent it, at least as far as I know. Most everyone one else was in charge of their death in some way, even if it had to do with actions taken a long time ago. My aunt, although her death was of an illness she'd come down with as a child that had nothing to do with her own judgment, also lived much longer than anticipated, and got to see her daughters grow up, meet some of her grandchildren, die peacefully in her rocking chair while her loving husband was upstairs.

The last time I saw Anita was at her mom's house. It was shortly before I left New Mexico, and she'd stopped really socializing, and had begun the process of weeding down visitors. I had taken a big spill the day before, and my leg was very infected and swollen to the point where I couldn't walk on it. I'd seen Jason that night after the show where I'd fallen, in the silk screening room of Warehouse 21. The next day we met up again for breakfast and I was still unable to walk, my kneecap swollen stiff. We were supposed to go on a hike or do construction or something, and I wouldn't say no because I was enamored, so Jason took me to Anita's to get pain medication. She gave me a couple pills and Jason gave me a beer to wash them down and boost their activity. Anita was in a lounge chair, and despite the New Mexican summer hear, there was a blanket on her lap. She looked little as ever, her ant-like cheeks puffed out, probably from all the painkillers. She had a bit of a belly, with such skinny limbs, the whole time I'd known her, but here in her house she just looked thin and dreadful. Jeer was with her, helping her move about and get things in the house. Jason and I left shortly. It was a bit much for all of us.

I moved away about a month later, and Jason didn't see her much after that either. She didn't want him to see her to weak and vulnerable.

It was a long process. I'd moved from New Mexico to New York, and from New York back to Boston, and from Boston I'd traveled around Europe and come back. I caught news of her death on the internet, via a post by Jaime of her obituary and the news of her wake. There was a show at my house going on in the basement. I ran downstairs screaming. No that's a lie. I walked downstairs to get a glass of water and there were people in the kitchen and when they started asking me questions and I tried to talk I collapsed and started screaming. I was ushered upstairs and just banged against the window with my head and screamed and wanted to die, the way I feel every time a friend dies but more intense and pathetic. I'm no good at these things. Anita's death made me miss so much that I could never have back. I still miss it, though not in the same way I suppose. Every time a person dies they take a tour van of experience with them. I can't enjoy metal shows anymore the way I used to, or grind, or calabasitas. Visiting friends in New Mexico is different, there aren't as many reasons to go to Albuquerque, and just another slapped on the long list or reasons to stay away.

When Anita died I lost my job for failure to show up, even though I called in. My friends in Boston turned to angels and threw a benefit show for me to go down and see friends. Devon had passed away that past November, I was a mess and was afraid the entire Santa Fe was just collapsing. It is a fear I have whenever someone dies. That someone won't be able to handle it and will kill themselves, thus pushing everyone else over the edge. It wouldn't surprise me, death is hard to overcome. So I visited. Shane, Sue Fury and I sat atop the Cross of the Martyrs and shared stories and reminisced. It was nice to hear their sides of things, to get someone else's stories. When you are by yourself on the other side of this vast expansive country, telling yourself the same stories over and over, you can start to worry maybe your memory is failing, maybe the person you remember isn't the person who existed. What a transformation. I don't care if I am remembered horridly, as long as I am remembered correctly.

But I am right in my memories, at least in the general feel of them. Maybe not the color of her hair on a certain day, but on the wideness of her smile, the way she made people feel, the fun she had despite it all, while everyone else was moaning off their hangovers, Anita was sucking up her breathes as fully as she could, knowing not to count them. I love her.

life since mexico: unemployed bliss

So I am unemployed. On my last day, Mary brought me in a box of Godiva chocolates, and Sue gave me a new journal with a really nice set of pen & pencil, both refillable (not the journal, I believe that is a one-time-only sort of thing). I don't know if Sue gave me a present solely because I left Mary's gift and card (where she talked about me being family!!) out on my desk, or because she genuinely wanted to give me something as a parting gift. Regardless, what she came up with was very particular to me and very thoughtful and appreciated. The chocolates, though they said more about Mary than about me (chocolate is her favorite food group), are delicious and I have been snacking on them secretly whenever I walk past the pantry.  I still did all of my work for the day, and tried to alleviate the stress for everyone with the transition from my competent self to this new person taking over my position (I met her, and showed her the computer, and she seems nice, I hope she works out well for the office).  I think that could be the reason why Sue went out and got me a gift, if she weren't planning on it before, that even though I had no real obligation to the office, I still felt obligated to them as people, and took care of things that they would take care of on Friday, were I to not care to work hard on my last day, because I don't want it to be like that, and they have always been good to me, and I would like them to remember me well, and not as a poor sport, or as a person who worked only to keep her job and not because she respected it or herself.



Soupie came in to help me load up all of my belongings, two very stuffed messenger bags full of condiments, protein powder, shoes (2 pairs), a picture of us lovebirds at the Jersey State Fair (framed), Spanish flash cards, random nicknacks, food, clothes that had piled up over the past 8 months in my office.  Evan a small boom box that doesn't work, and a hammer it took a moment of trying to remember whether it was mine and why I would have brought it (it was mine, and I brought it in one day to put studs on my vest).

I'd been riding the Eliza Furnace Trail home from work every day for the last two weeks or so, because it is a longer ride and the weather is nice, and the lack of traffic and quality of pavement make the trip take just about as long, if not just minutes slower (though to Evan's house I believe it is the same amount of time if not quicker, because it is a more on-track route than to my house, which is slightly out of the way).  So on this last day we took the trails again, with our heavily loaded bags, and dispite the weight on our backs, felt as free as ever, with no jobs to hurry away from, and mainly each other to look forward to, right next to each other.

Since being unemployed, Soupie and I have gone out to breakfast at our favorite diner, Pamela's, and got pancakes, then went to his dad's house and helped him clear out his basement (more on that later, in the section about the yard sale).  We went to a punk show (Phobia, which should have been the first warning), and got into a fight with a couple kids who thought it was alright to bring dogs into the venue, went on a few city night-rides, and have actually spent time with friends (though I confess I suppose this began while I still had a job, but no more class or trip or emotional recovery to tend to).  Also, what a joy to both of us, we have begun this year's mountain bike season.  I also hung the hammocks in my back yard and planted basil, tomato, and blackberry seedlings/bushes in Evan's yard.  Oh, and I also started reading Moby Dick, after so many years of NOT reading it.

Today, perhaps, was the best day.  But lets start with yesterday.  Last night, after a day of running errands and not much getting accomplished and running our of time to go for a road ride, we noticed the dog to be sick.  We'd taken him to Hot Dog Dam with Evan's dad the day before, where he got slobbered and trampled by the other dog wading in the water there, since I could not take him off the leash since it isn't very fenced in at all, just right by the trail.  That night we left him for a bit to grab pizza with Leanne (I told you life was real good now that I have no job), who was breaking vegan with us, and a few bands on tour.  The bands came back to Evan's to sleep, and the dog was pretty sleepy, but it was late.  The next day, he was still a bit sheepish, but he was around strangers.  No big deal.  We took him for a walk in the woods and to the dog park, and he had energy but got bored of the other dogs easily and spent time wandering around by himself instead of running, but it was hot out and he overheats easily.  He slept most of the day while we continued with our errands.  But when we looked at him before getting on our bikes to head to a party where our friends' bands were playing, he was extremely bloated looking.  We decided to wait a bit and see what happened, and he went intermittently between running around with the new toy we bought him and barking at the neighbor dog to laying bloated and sore-looking on my bed, to the point where he just had his legs stretched out and his head drooping off the edge of the bed, not sleeping though it was past his bedtime, and when I pet him he shivered a bit.  He felt like a water balloon.  After some deliberation, we decided to hold off on taking him to the vet, but to not go out.

So we stayed home and watched Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, which I'd just gotten in the mail that day, or the day before.  We made popcorn and kept an eye on the dog.  Around 1 a.m. we almost gave in and took him to the emergency room, but as we got ready to leave he finally fell asleep, so we took that as a sign to let him rest and not ruin his night any more by waking him again and putting him in the car.  About 40 minutes later, he jumped back on my bed (we'd put him in his own bed so he wouldn't fall off mine) and curled into my legs, a sign that he was feeling better.  In the morning, sure enough, he finally ate a bit of food after not eating anything all yesterday, and seemed to be completely cured of whatever monstrous parasite was surging through his body, causing him to throw up Friday's meal, poop three times, and not want to eat Saturdays dinner.

So it is today, now.  We wake early to check on the dog, who is fine, and who is already awake and trying to get out to bark at the neighbor dog.  We tell him to go back to sleep, but instead he pees on my rug (it's ok, that rug doesn't really tie the room together, it was a gift and is machine-washable).  So our day begins.  We walk around the block and stop to get coffee.  Evan sells the surf board that was rotting away in his dad's basement for $20 to one of our favorite baristas.  People are just starting to set up for the community-wide yard sale.  We have stuff to sell so we go home and start setting up shop.  Ultimately, we make about $45.  I sell things real cheap and Evan accounts for inflation and emotional worth.  I just try to get my stuff out of my hands.  We still have some stuff left, mainly me, but we did get rid of all his dad's junk from the basement: the surf board, a set of speakers, a lamp from the 50's.....lots of treasures that had been sitting for too long for Bob (Evan's dad) to see as anything by trash.

We could have made more money, but Todd stopped by so we started chatting, them we just got bored of the whole yard sale all together and packed the whole deal up, sent Todd home, made lunch, and then met Ted at Evan's house to go mountain biking.  It was a nice ride, I felt really strong for the most part, and a lot of things that sometimes scare me were no big deal at all.  We did do one trail though that freaked me out and put a stick in my spokes.  It's called Roller Coaster, and is essentially that.  Lots of steep ups and steep downs, lots of turns, riding on curves and curbs.  I can ride down hills ok, generally speaking, as part of a trail to make it to the second spot, but when that is the entire trail and it is windy, all I can think of is losing control and hitting a log that is jutting out and smashing into the tree next to it.  I don't mind scars or scabs or bruises, but getting poofed into a vegetable for the sake of overcoming some trail that doesn't know whether I am riding it or not isn't really that important to me, and in fact just the possibility freaks me out somewhat.  Soupie and Ted tried to break this thought process by reminding me of how dangerous riding through city traffic seems to most people but how I do that so effortlessly.  Soupie said he doesn't like riding some trails that shoot down real fast because they cross other paths and he doesn't know whether or not there might be something there.  He said it's a matter of control, that he doesn't like feeling like he isn't in control, and he isn't in control of that sort of situation.  I said that perhaps, then, my problem is that I don't like to be in control.  If I crash into some kid who is doing down the perpendicular trail, at least it was fate that ran us into each other, and not my horrible mountain biking skills.

Other than that, though, the ride was great.  We came home and read and shared a bowl of wheat pasta with garlic, and iced tea.  In an hour we will get half-price burritos at Mad Mex.  We don't have to get up early for anything but each other, and maybe for a road ride in the morning before I have to meet a guy about setting up a website, and Evan had lunch with his friends and then helps his dad organize and clean his art studio.

Perhaps, also, I will have time to mail out chapbooks to people, and maybe even file for unemployment.  In the evening, we are checking out a bike trailer, which we will hopefully use to cart the dog around, so we can take him to the dog park, or on long bike rides and camping trips.  Better than stuffing him in my backpack (we've tried, he hates it), or taking him to a Phobia show, anyway, right?

Mexico IV

I'd forgotten to mention another guy who spoke English in Tehuantepec and approached us. He was a local of the town but also a bit of a traveler. He had been living and working just north (?) of Atlantic City, NJ, and in the summer was headed to Acapulco. He said he had to be wary of who he spoke English to, since one time he saw a white person in town and he greeted him with "Hi, my name's Mike, are you visiting?" and the person looked confused and said, in Spanish, "I'm sorry, I don't speak English." But we are American gringos, so he was in luck. He asked us how we liked his town, since people rarely come visit, and said, "The people here, they'll drink for anything!" Just like every weekend is a holiday weekend.



Anyway, after our final night in Tehuantepec, we awoke around 5 a.m., when it was still pitch black out, and headed towards the bus station to catch a 6:30 bus for Oaxaca City. A motocarro driver was asleep on the sidewalk beside his chariot, but woke up automatically as we approached, however quiet we were being. He gave us a lift to the bus station for a dollar (total, for the both of us, which was the same fare we paid for being driven to find food -- it must be a fixed rate though I'm not positive) and it was terrifying! The town we'd gotten to know surprisingly well during out day and two nights there was nothing at all like this sleeping 5 a.m. Tehuantepec, where no one was awake, no windows were lit, and there were few street lights. At times it seemed he may have been driving us into a field somewhere, as we could see nothing and the roads seemed so much narrower and bumpier than I'd remembered them. They were lined with sleeping dogs and the occasional street-side fire. But alas, out of that deep thundering wild darkness, speeding past fires and over speed bumps, clutching our bags and the handrail, we began to recognize buildings, signs, homes -- the place where the man who talked to us with a mouth full of food was eating, where the two boys were standing and laughing at us, the Disney mural, and finally the bus station.



The ride from Tehuantepec to Oaxaca was mainly through the desert and I don't remember much of it. We watched a couple movies and slept and stared out the window and sewed -- My favorite skirt, which I'd had since the 90's was destroyed finally in an epic crushing wave in Mazunte while we were leaning against a sand bank that hasn't been washed with water in quite a while. In the fashion of that beach, we laughed and got destroyed. So it goes, though, and it was a way to pass time. I feel like to a degree Evan and I fell in love again each time we rode the bus. It was a pretty good blend of the two of us's instincts. Economical, safe, efficient; travel, speed, movement. Not to mention the laziness of a bus ride that both of us took great advantage of, with our moving around so often and so boisterously.



In Oaxaca City we stayed at a youth hostel because it was the cheapest and they had a kitchen and single/double rooms, meaning we didn't have to share a room with anyone else. We had stopped somewhere else but it was fancy and expensive and the only room they had available was for six people. I had a hard time coming to the understanding that for purposes of timing and sensibility it wouldn't be logical for us to camp, thus squashing my dreams of pitching a tent in the middle of the Oaxacan desert forest and exploring the unurban outback. So it goes. We were in the center of town, right near a great bakery, the market, the town square, and lots of incredible street art. That was one of the coolest parts of Oaxaca City, there was so much incredible graffiti and stencil art, lots of real political and anarchist art and wheatpaste art everywhere. We only saw a few punks, but that is probably because we were staying in a hostel, and a hostel in the center of town at that. I don't go to the weird outdoor concerts with crappy musicians in Pittsburgh or Boston, so why would I expect the punks to go to the same sort of deal in Oaxaca?



We went to see the ruins one day, and on the way there, Evan stepped in this puddle of stagnant water and sewage run-off that smelt like rotten diapers that had been sitting in the sun and been kept wet with homeless bile puke and bleach. Ew. Totally ruined his shoes, but he was a trooper and stuck it out through the bus ride up to the ruins and the three hours spent there (too long!) and until we got back to the hostel, where he just threw his shoes out. They were pretty old tennis shoe sneakers anyway, not a totally huge loss, but still too bad. We also went and saw that giant tree, which was so big it put the redwoods to shame. There were some more touristy historic stuff to be seen, but Soupie was over it at this point and it's never really been something I've been interested in. It is more fun to me to figure out how to take a city bus out there and find the place than it is to actually get there, which is why taxis are a bit dumb unless you need one because there is no other public transportation.



After Oaxaca we headed to Mexico City, mainly just en route back to Acapulco to catch our planes. We were walking down the street wishing there was a place to go, when all of a sudden we heard the Buzzcocks being blasted. We followed the noise and it turned out to be an art/punk free show/party at a gallery. They watched out bags for free while we hung out and looked at art and drank a couple beers. Actually, it was this crazy concoction that included beer that is popular there, but I forget the name of it. Soupie will tell you, tell him to write a blog with all that stuff in it. That place was only interesting for so long, despite the good DJ, because I'd never been to Mexico City before and wanted to really see the city and wander around. We saw the people doing Aztec dances and rituals in the city square, and apparently they are there every night, because the region is so powerful and spiritual. We wandered some more, got some tortas which were the most delicious we'd had during either of our times in Mexico, and I got hit on by a couple of dudes until I told them I had a "nuvio." They were nice about it though and didn't press the issue. On our way back to the bus station, we bumped into Sheila from Canada, who lives at the Squat Evan was staying at for a while. A bit spacey but very nice and cool.



Back in Acapulco, we went to the beach, walked around a bit, and met a guy who gave us real good advice on where to get cheap food and how to get to the airport by bus rather than by taking a taxi. He was the one who told us that every weekend in Mexico is a holiday weekend. It bums him out, because he needs to make money. It was a moment that showed a lot of privilege on my end, because I joked that I wished every weekend in the US was a holiday weekend (I was joking because I only work 4 days a week and so every weekend really is a holiday weekend for me), but he was like, "No no! We can't make any money! The weekend goes from Friday through Tuesday sometimes! It's awful!" That the issue of money didn't even occur to me was a bit embarrassing, though there was certainly a time when I did want to work a lot more than the hours I was given. Just not now. He also explained how awful Acapulco is, how the city spends so much money on stupid things, meanwhile the roads flood every year and by just spending a little bit on better drains everyone would be much better off, the locals would be much better off. But no one cares about the locals there. Which seemed pretty true, spending a bit of time there. Man, what a shit town.



That's basically it for the trip. We took a few buses and a short taxi ride to the airport, had a ton of layovers and plane troubles, they lost our luggage in between Atlanta and Mexico City but they found it the next day. Also the next day, I found out that Evan's van had been stolen the night we got home, and that the saddest possible had happened the Thursday I was away:



RIP Matt Frado.

Punx Never Die.

Mexico III

One of the best feelings regarding travel is the moment you find a place to put your things, and then leave them there, and step out into this new dimension that cannot be conceived during the worst part of travel: carrying 30 lbs on your back and trying unsuccessfully to remain somewhat incognito or at least out of people's way (neither are possible with a giant pack, or even a small one such as mine, since I travel light to compensate for my clumsiness). So off Evan and I went, into the dark of Tehuantepec, to eat their food and mingle with their locals in a manner a step beyond "Where is the closest place to stay? Can you say that slower please, I only pretend to speak Spanish." We stopped by a juice stand, as Mexico is full of juice stands where they make freshly squeezed juice, and I got a large glass of orange juice (about 4 or 5 oranges worth) for $1.50. The guy's name was Roberto, and he had been studying English for about 5 years and was dying to talk to a native English speaker, since he never meets them (Tehuantepec is not a tourist town by any means). This didn't really help our Spanish much, but really my Spanish needs more than just a conversation with the dude pressing my juice. He gave us the low-down on the city, told us where the bars are and where the outdoor marcado suddenly appears in the morning, full of chickens and tortas and slabs of beef and piniatas, and told us about the motocarros, which are essentially pedicaps pulled by motorcycles. And instead of a nice little carriage in which to sit while going to your nice restaurant, you are standing on a platform with a railing in the front, while zooming in and out and around traffic. More on our experiences with those later.



After a bit of walking and exploring, we called it a night. And in the morning, it was already about 90 degrees. WOAH! And it was my birthday. We went out for an early morning walk and may or may not have gotten breakfast, neither of us had appetites this entire trip, really. Later we got a couple small pizzas with pineapple on them that were absolutely horrible. Well, they were sub par. Apparently Soupie's had good pizza in Mexico, and this was well below the standards that had set. But regardless, that was laterl In the meantime, we walked around a bit. There was this blue-ish tunnel we could see from our hotel window, where a road headed straight for it, then turned into a dirt road, then a windy/zig-zaggy dirt road, then by the top it sort of disappeared, like no one ever really made it that high. It also looked like people were trying to make a road, and lost momentum as they went further up until finally they just said "Fuck it" and blew a tunnel into the top of the very tall hill. Not quite a mountain, but almost. In our wandering, we thoughtlessly found ourselves heading up there. Maybe Soupie knew what to do that whole time, but to me it felt like wandering, checking out the other side of town.



We walked along these railroad tracks suspended over a probably 50 foot or so drop. It was rickety but not bad. We saw a woman herding goats with a stick that had strips of trash bag tied to the end of it, sort of like a larger version of what is used to shoe the flies off meat at the market. It was pretty epic to see, as nothing is ever really herded where I come from, except maybe high school graduates into college, and college graduates into shitty middle management positions in offices, and don't forget the homeless people in New York who were herded first to New Jersey and then to the South. Not really ever animals though, especially animals that are used for sustainable living. So we watched them move along as we crossed the tracks. On the other side, when we eventually made it, turned out we had to scoot ourselves down this short but steep descent that happened to be full of syringes and other such party accessories. Apparently Mexico has a lot of diabetics (and, from the amount of glue bags we saw, a good amount of artists and craft workers as well). We made it unharmed (p.s. I had a gaping wound on my left big toe from stubbing on a log in the dark on the beach in Mazunte, and was wearing sandals, and Evan was sure I'd get something stuck in there, though the sand that had hardened into the wound assured me that nothing would be able to penetrate and I was completely out of harms way) and walked across a long, hot valley where men led donkeys packed with goods, or worked on their broken down wagons. It felt timeless, or from a time not mine, and I felt incredibly out of place but not uncomfortable. Lining the valley were small farms and gardens full of greenery, vegetables, roosters, and the occasional boy lying in a hammock for a siesta as the afternoon heat began to kick in.



On the far end, we hit the town and emerged into the streets, which were covered in graffiti and littered with tiendas with video arcades, hammocks, and lots of fans, that seemed to only sell one or two candybars and a couple sodas each, just enough to have a reason to stay open. We wandered in and out, drinking water and purposefully not complaining about the heat. We cut through a few people's yards, asking permission of the one older man who was out, and saw a few pigs scattered about, grazing on grass in the shade. There was a church that had all the stations of the cross designed into its architecture in this unique way, where I did not personally see any statues, paintings, etc to describe the stations, but the flow of the church came to specific halting points that were angled in specific directions to indicate such a pattern. The feng shui of Christ. Past the church we saw the road that struggled up the hill with the tunnel.



As we headed up the road, as we passed the last house, there was a mother dog and her litter, all starving, and the runt kicked out of the pack to die alone. The ones rest of the litter took turns trying to nurse off the starving, dehydrated mother while she laid and panted in the dust. "Let it go, Sweetheart, it's just Mother Nature," Evan said as we walked past on our way up, noticing the look of terror on my face. They made terrorizing whelping noises we could hear all the way up the hill.



As we headed further along, towards the tunnel, the road got steeper and steeper, until we needed to use our hands to climb and it was apparent that this was no tunnel for cars trying to make it to the other side, and probably not even burros with heavy packs. When we reached the top, we saw the tunnel was actually cave. And the cave was actually a Shrine to St. Michael, the saint my grandmother always told me to pray to when things were going wrong in my life. We sat in the cool of the cave and listened to the bats flutter sleepily in the tiny holes around the back of the tunnel and drank more water and wiped the sweat that dripped from our bodies. The view was incredible, though I'm becoming less and less one for views. It's just looking at a place we are not a part of, or a civilization we're not taking part in. What's the point? Though here in the cool shrine, it made more sense. The reflective didn't seem any more inclusive, but it did seem a bit less intrusive and perhaps slightly more purposeful. Less weird, more poetic. We stayed, dripping and listening to the whelping dying pups, until we saw another group of people ascending the climb. As atheists, I feel wrong being in someone else's religious environment – it's very intrusive. When I was in high school my dad tried to convince me to get Confirmed in the Catholic church, and his reasoning when he realized my atheistic tendencies were agnostic at best and angry at worst, was that at least I would get money from my relatives. It seemed weasely, taking money from people on the guise of faith. I may not have to much faith in the Catholic Church as an organization, but I certainly have faith in some things in this world, like the love I share with Evan and that everything will eventually work out because they have to, and that I'll make it out alive, and I wouldn't want anyone to cash in on that. I don't like seeing corporate punk bands, and while that in itself is an insulting comparison, I wouldn't want to be the corporate punk band hanging out in the local underground club when the kids showed up to see their friends' bands play. So we descended and crossed the family on the road – three men and a little girl on one of their shoulders. We said hello and they asked if we were up there, we said yes and they all smiled genuinely and sincerely.



It was too hot when we got to the bottom, so I went to the hotel room and took a cold shower (that was actually a hot shower since the water tank was so hot from the sun and could not cool itself) and laid on the bed and napped a bit while Soupie went out and got a piñata for my birthday. He came and got me and put a bandana over my eyes and we walked slowly down the five flights of stairs. He'd gotten permission from the hotel staff to hang it up, and they were all waiting for me when I came down, singing Happy Birthday and another song I had never heard before, that sounded happy and good-spirited and nice, probably a special song for piñatas. I suck at piñatas. I missed it a bunch, and then cracked it practically in half, still not spilling out any candy. I tried to tear at it with the stick, while the hotel's live-in family/owners sang that cheerful song and giggled. I finally gave up and opened my eyes to my failure, then shook some of the candy out for the little girl of the hotel to come pick up. (Yes, I also ran around afterwards picking it up).



After the piñata was the jaunt out into the streets to find food and then a bar. After taking one motocarro ride in search of food that dropped us off at a few street vendors selling beef tacos and skull meat (literally), and then stopping by a restautant that was incredibly overpriced (Tehuantepec, for having zero tourism, have an incredibly firm economy that supported itself with it's markets, agriculture, crafts, stands set up full of all the hip digs of the times, and also their own The rest of the night was spent wandering more and taking multiple showers in an attempt to keep cool.

Mexico II

Climbing up it got real hot and steep, and I turned around too soon and caught the view right as Evan was saying, "Don't turn around yet you'll ruin it!" Oops. But still the top was worth it. It reminded me a bit of New Mexico, certain parts of New Mexico, certain views. How the houses fix into the landscape, everything is subtle despite the reality of the heat, the harshness of cactus pins, life in general. The family was away searching for Ines, the other sister, in Oaxaca City, because she'd gone there a few weeks back and never returned. When we got down from the hill, though, there she was in the house, fresh off the bus and smiling. She'd gotten engaged while Evan was gone, and we went over to her fiance's house across the street, a place Evan said he'd always known as the garage that played extremely loud music, since there was a garage out front, to say hello. He makes hammocks for a living and had a few weaves going when we stopped by. He picked up a good looking mango from the ground and sliced it up for us and offered us a seat on his hammock that was hanging in the shade. He was very friendly, with a healthy gut and a nice smile, and we talked (mainly him and Soupie, and I interjected with a little Spanish here and there) about surfing, skateboarding, tattoos -- he showed us some of his tattoos, including a MASSIVE marijuana leaf, I think it was on his arm. After a bit of chitchat and an incredibly juicysweet mango, we headed off to catch a collectivo (like a minibus for the smaller neighborhoods) back into town to head southwest.



More beautiful scenery, I can't say much about it except there was a lot of Evan sleeping on the bus while I had the shades pulled back on the windows on both sides of the bus behind him and just ran back and forth seeing which view was better, holy cow, this can be said for most bus rides, eyes wide as a whale's mouth, taking in anything I could to filter later.



Mazunte, a little beach town up the elbow of Mexico, is a tropical paradise. When we got off the bus, there was no bus stop, just a little tienda on the side of the road and a taxi that quickly picked us up and took us to the beach. We asked him about camping and he took us to his friend who is building a big 3 story concrete house. He said we could hang hammocks there for $10 (or $15) each, which seemed outrageous. The view was great, it's true, but there was concrete dust everywhere, paint cans, building tools, etc. So we said we wanted to walk around town a bit and found a hostel type place that let us throw up a tent for $7 total, and we had use of showers, bathrooms, and the security of being under someone else's watchful eye. I personally just kept my stuff on me all the time, as per what I'm used to, but Evan gave his stuff to the people in charge. It is still a bit weird for me to pay money to put a tent up on a beach when it is just a beach, but it's because I have no real sense of things, hence perhaps the nickname "Mistake." But anyway, Tropical Paradise. There were a few people on the beach, literally. A few bars with thatched roofs stretching casually into the sand, and the waves crashing chaotically about, no real pattern or sense of tidal obligation. Past those few bars there was nobody, nothing. Just Evan and I, a house tucked way up high above the beach, on a hill, and the silhouettes of those few by the bars near our hostel. We went swimming even though the water was dangerous. We were soaked anyway due to the waves and the tide's unpredictability. It was fun. We got tossed around. We didn't drown. Moments like this I am reminded of that quote by Joseph Conrad, in The Secret Sharer: "Let them think what they liked, but I didn't mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank -- but that's not the same thing." One morning Evan and I went swimming on the more populated side, it was early, before anyone was really awake, and he picked me up in the waves. I have being picked up, but in the water's boyancy I don't mind so much so I let him. But then that damn tide sucked away and I was up in the air, and he didn't put me down in time and a new wave came and I got sucked out of his arms, hit my head on the ground, on something on the ground, banged up my knee, came up disoriented and strange, so we packed up and walked along the sand for a wild, walked around town and saw all the small sights of smalltown anywhere, the roosters wandering about, the goats and burros, tiendas everywhere there are so many tiendas in Mexico!



We packed up the tent and headed to Pochutla, a small bustling town with a big marcado (market area with lots of tables etc. selling all sorts of things, small restaurants, etc.), Tortas and banana liquados (like a fresh banana milkshake sorta), an old colonial spanish style church with a view overlooking the city. One cool thing about Mexico, at least southern Mexico, is that wall space and store fronts are used as billboards, so a lot of times we would be walking, and this was very prominent in Pochutla because it lined all the streets as well, and there would be names of political nominees currently running for position, or announcements for concerts or events coming up. A very efficient use of space and material.



Anyway, from Pochutla we headed to Tehuantepec. I loved this town. We arrived at night and it was very warm but it felt nice. As we walked towards city center, we tried to talk to a man who was eating. He had called out to us but then turned out to be not much help, he kept on mumbling through his food and our Spanish is already pretty bad so it was hard for us to understand and he wouldn't try to enunciate or anything, just kept on speaking through his food. Not the greatest start. But there were these two kids who were watching the whole interaction and giggling and I looked at them and smiled. When we left mumbly dude, they kept following us, making hissing noises. We ignored them at first, then they started calling out, "Americanos! Hey Americanos!" When we finally turned around we saw two very friendly gay teenage boys, one who spoke a bit of English and one who didn't speak a word of it. "Tell me a question to ask them!" the one would say, "what should I say to them?" The one who didn't speak any English just smiled and they giggled and the one who spoke English asked us where we were from in America. "Pittsburgh, in Pennsylvania," we replied. "Oh! With the Steel." He turned to his friend and they giggled some more and the thin one with no English twisted shyly. "Could you tell us how to get to the center of town? Or where a hotel might be?" He gave us directions in a mixture of Spanish and English, then we chit-chatted a bit before we ran off to find a place to put our bags for the night. We had to ask a few more people, all of whom were surprised to see us but very friendly and helpful in giving us directions on where to go and how to get there. We ended up at Hotel Oasis, a nice place for only $18 total per night. We put down our stuff, rested a moment, then headed out into the street to meet people and see this town with no tourism.




To be continued....

Mexico

I don't know how much I will be able to get out about this trip now. It may have to be done in blog stages. This past week has been a bit of a blur, with untimely and tragic the death of Frado and with the theft of Evan's van, so memories of Mexico are a bit hard for me. Evan tried brainstorming me about it the other day though on the way to his mom's house, and it helped a bit. I suppose I will start at the beginning.



Before leaving, I got held up 45 minutes at work, I tried to print out essays and poems for a contest whose deadline was that day, May 1st, but my printer was out of ink. I finally left to pick up Leanne, because I said I would because I was going to be heading in that direction anyway, thinking I would have to go to the Bloomfield post office to drop off the entries. But, as I searched for my keys to get going, after nearly and hour of tearing the house apart, I realized I'd locked them in the car a few nights ago when Ted called me right as I was parking with a car load of groceries and a dog who was not tired despite his 2 hours at the dog park. So Leanne rode over on her bike to meet me while Colleen made vegan pizza as a going away/birthday present, and we all waited for AAA to come break into my car. When we got in, I ran a few errands and took MJ to Mayhew's for babysitting and was so sad to leave him after a solid 6 months of just him and me. Came home, packed, try to get my life somewhat in order, slept for 2 hours and then it was time to pick up Leanne to go to the airport so she could drive my car back.



Airport garbage, I had a 7 hour layover in Mexico City. Funny story. Evan was in Mexico City for the past week, but had to take a 5 hour bus ride, while totally pukey sick, to meet me because if I were to just get off in Mexico City and leave the airport, I'd forfeit my return ticket. If I told them I was getting out in Mexico City, I'd have to pay $300. Bullshit. So it was 7 hours alone in the airport for me, 5 hours sick on a bus for him.



We met in Acapulco, he grabbed us a taxi and we were in traffic for over an hour and a half. Every weekend is a holiday weekend. As someone from Tehuantapec later joked with us, "these people will drink for anything." The cabbie tried to get more tip money from Evan because of the long drive but at this point he'd been in Mexico long enough to know that cabbies are the highest paid of most communities, and that they will rip off tourists/white people whenever possible. So we just whisked off into the Acapulco night, the deep alleys of faded discarded tourism, and a mystic feeling that comes with windy narrow streets lined with stubby buildings and closed down markets. Teenagers loitered on stoops talking the local gossip, making plans for the late evening. We passed into the open halls of the hotel where Evan had rented a room for the night, and were lulled to sleep by the city's last gurgles.

In the morning we ran about gathering food for breakfast and the the upcoming 8 hour busride to Puerto Escondido. The thing to know about Southern Mexico is that just about all American prejudices against Mexico are false, as far as I know about both Mexican culture and American prejudice. All the food we ate all trip was fresh, starting this very morning at the bakery where we picked up loaves still warm from the oven, plus a few pastries to give us a quick delicious sugar rush to start the day. Next we stopped at at a tienda (like a corner store, bodega, etc.) to get Soupie's Coca Cola fix which he'd acquired in Mexico, due to the deliciously smooth sugar they use instead of the American high-fructose corn syrup.



A close call with a speeding car, a bit of wandering, and 2 city buses later, we are at the bus stop, in the bus, and headed south to the coast, through small towns and villages and past shacks held together by hammocks, grazing burros, small tiendas, gushing valleys, palm trees and cacti, short flashes glimpses of coast, the heat steaming off the highway, all studded with speed bumps every so often. In the US this would be insane, speed bumps on a highway, but here where there are no street lights, and not much life except for scattered houses, tiendas, mechanic shops, and herds of cattle etc., a person could easily kill something, or drive off the road, on these quick windy speedways.



Finally in Puerto Escondido I could tell Evan felt at home in the place he'd first gotten acclimated to Mexican life, and we weaved easily through the streets as the city became more populated, finally making it down to the beach. I wanted to camp, always wanting to camp, but he didn't trust it much and opted for staying at the hostel he'd stayed at after living with the Romero family for a week. They were full and we came to agreement at the modest surfer hostel down the road, mattresses on concrete blocks for $5 per night, showers, toilets and the peace of mind that our stuff was getting looked after. We freshened up and laid our stuff out, then set out to buy groceries, find a cheap torta (a recurring sandwich on our trip, always made slightly differently, typically with mayo, egg, queseo [a oaxacan cheese that is very salty and stringy, slightly like mozzarella, though i hate mozz and love queseo], tomato, avocado, maybe lettuce and/or onion), and then head to the beach to watch the midnight waves crashing.



In the morning we went swimming at the surfer's beach, walked along the shore and up a crag pooled with tide, rejected teenage lovers, couples giving each other the googly eyes. I picked shells and waded with some small fish, then we headed to the top and we walked through town and eventually made it back to our room for a siesta. The second half of the day was about the same, only it included an 80-cent cone of homemade (like, that day) coconut icecream and swimming in my underwear under night's thick warm sheet. The next day was about the same, more wandering, swimming, exploring, a pina colada at the beach, and then we headed to the Romero family's house in Independencia, right outside Puerto Escondido. Only one of the sisters was home of the whole family, so we played with their pups for a bit and then hiked up this big hill that overlooks the town and the valley....




to be continued...

update all around

I haven't updated in a bit, it's been rather hectic in these parts and at the same time it's seemed like there's been nothing noteworthy. Lets see where I left off.




The book was published. Lauren's sold almost all of her 50 copies so far, and I haven't had a great amount of time to put my copies, but have still sold 13 and there hasn't even been an official book launch yet (it's on Friday). My professor emailed me and told me it was an excellent production, that the writing was wonderful but what really made the book shine was its outstanding design. I thanked him and updated him on book sales, and then put it out there that I would be available for an internship this fall, since all I have left to complete is my thesis. He emailed me immediately and asked me to come in this Friday to interview with him and the other editor in chief at Autumn House. I think it will be a great job because they are such nice people, and it's unpaid but it will also be a great boost to my resume whenever I leave Pittsburgh and want to do something in editing/publishing.



I had a reading last night at school, and Joe, Neil, and Colleen were all kind enough to come see me read my essay on letter writing and cheer me on and laugh at all my bad jokes. I have another reading tonight, but this time I only have 5 minutes so I am excerpting an essay. If anyone wants to come out, it's at Most Wanted Fine Arts Gallery and starts at 8pm. Later in the week is the Book Launch at Chatham, that's on Friday at 7, and then Lauren has another reading at Garfield Artworks on Saturday, followed by a party at our house afterwards. Busy!



Meanwhile at home, Major Tom ran away for an evening, and it was a dark and stormy evening that put the whole search on hold, plus his tags have Evan's number on him, and he is still in Mexico. But someone at the dog park (where he ran off) had a bunch of numbers in his phone from when his dog ran away a couple weeks ago, so I called all those shelters and told them the issue with the tags, and in the morning, a woman from Animal Rescue League called and said someone had turned him in, they'd tried the number on the tag first but it didn't work and then the shelter got the dog and had my message and put it all together and called me. Hurray!



I also got him one of those Halti face harnesses, and he's getting used to it and it really helps with his temperament, pulling, interaction with other dogs, etc. The only thing is that he won't poop when he wears it, so I gotta pay close attention to his actions, sniffing, walk, etc., and then take the harness off when I think it's time for him to go. He gets real stubborn with it and will sometimes sit down or try to pull it off his face, so I gotta put my foot under him and physically lift up his hind area to get him to walk, and then he'll walk again. But it is nice because the Halti, combined with his frequent visits to the dog park, really help with getting him used to being around other dogs and he doesn't freak out as much when he sees them. I hope he gets real good in the next two and a half weeks before I drop him off with Mayhew for doggie bootcamp. I don't want Major Tom causing any problems or being too much of a hassle.



We are also searching for a roommate. If anyone knows of someone who needs a place to live for the summer, in a beautiful (seriously) house in Pittsburgh, Highland Park/East Liberty area, with me and two stellar dudes, lemme know. $325/month, May through July. There is a fully fenced yard and a garden and a front porch with rocking chairs and a porch swing, and lots of natural light and an incredible kitchen, a laundry shoot, 2-car garage, loveable small dog, etc. etc. etc. I'm looking at you, Bostonians.

PS Evan is ok, his phone doesn't work in Puerto Escondido. He called his mom from Ross's phone last night. He's sunburnt and bug-eaten.



I am exhausted. But things are getting accomplished.

CHAPBOOK OUT NOW!

OUT NOW on Longshore Press



praise for Dawn in the Kaatskills:



Alleyne's attention to craft-- the way she interrogates beauty and gender and refigures loss as transformative, the way she uses the sonnet form itself to suggest both containment and possibility-- is truly impressive.



In Dawn in the Kaatskills, she renders Dame Van Winkle's incantatory calling in a voice both enraged and irresistible. I am ignited."



"
--Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon






"In these tightly written poems, Lauren K. Alleyne offers a window into the underbelly of the tale of Rip Van Winkle, told from the perspective of Van Winkle's wife, a sugar-tongued woman for whom marriage was not "happily ever after.



" In the tradition of Ann Sexton's Transformations, Alleyne's poems...reimagine and give voice to women whose strength and power are often twisted in traditional folk or fairy tales. This is a powerful addition to the canon of revisionary fairy tales. Bravo!"


--Sheryl St. Germain






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Harbingers

There was a robin at Evan's family Easter brunch. It was alive and could not fly. Had no external injuries. Was not scared of me. I picked it up and it didn't bite me, let me pet it's head, open its wings. I put it in a box while we waited for the Wildlife Center to call back with advise and info on whether they'd let us take it in. Paul suggested giving it some bread with honey, and we put the box up high so it would get a lot of sun and not be bothered by anything. When the Wildlife Center returned my call, I went out to check on it, and it was dead.



I hope Soupie's ok. I haven't heard from him since he got on the bus in Acapulco, and his phone is dead. I am assuming he just hasn't had a chance to charge it or find an internet cafe, being in such a new and exciting place, so I am not letting myself worry for a few more days. But it won't stop me from obsessively checking my various email addresses to see if he's sent anything or signed onto anything lately (he hasn't). I know he found Ross, and they got on a bus out of Acapulco. And I know Puerto Escondido is a hippy town that is pretty touristy , and yesterday was Easter which is a huge holiday there. So a few more days. I'm not worrying yet. Promise.

But if any of you out there in cyberspace talk to him, tell him to call me because a robin died in his front yard and it makes me worry.



In other news, I am going to be published in Ms. Guided, a women's travel journal. Two poems. I have a few travel essays I feel are pretty polished and ready to be sent out, but I also feel they are pretty strong pieces and with a good query letter I could get them published in something bigger, something paying, so I'm holding off until I an figure out how to write a good query letter.

Also, my publishing teacher stopped me after class and told me I am doing very well in class and it's a pleasure to have me there. I hope I don't disappoint. Lauren's chapbook looks really great, I think, and it's so well done that I want people to really know about it and want it and buy it. If anyone would like to pre-order a copy, let me know and I'll tell you where you can send the check. It's only $8, that's less than a lunch at most places.

gone baby gone

Everything is suddenly without appetite, my eyes burn. Evan says it's nice that I cry that he's leaving, or is gone. It shows that I miss him, care, love. Every noise outside reminds me of him, my ears perk like he might walk through that door, but he won't.

Last Action Hero

The other night I dreamt that The Government had taken away all the guns. I am not sure whether it was just the US gov't or the world gov't, and if they took away all the guns of The World, or just of the US. I am pretty sure the US had taken over the world government, and then took away all the guns of the world. The place had gotten too violent and this was another dumb solution. Of course it fucked up power and status because people had no legit way of protecting their property. So The Church (Catholic, I assume, given my upbringing), knowing power, status, and regime better than any other organization in the world, gave everyone knives. This backfired, since basically all of the world could use more cash, and only a few people have sufficient funds to get by in life. Tons were killed.


Where my dream actually starts is a prison bus getting let out into the streets. there's classic bad girl movie star babe wearing a tank top and ripped with muscles etc., a bit dirty in the face, steps off followed by a few others. She announces that they are prisoners and they don't mean any harm, they are unarmed, and wish no violence to befall them and so are making their position known. Of course they all get beaten and stabbed to death. In retrospect I believe they may have been some rich people who were made prisoners for their own protection.


Anyway I go inside this big building and Evan is there with me. He sort of fills me in on what is going on, since I had apparently been traveling in some remote place and wasn't privy to any of this. There is an announcement by a woman regarding some sort of contest. A race of sorts. There have to be 600,000 people at a certain place in 24 hours or something like that, and there is a huge cash reward. People start going nuts, and Evan tells me to watch myself because it was about to get violent. He had no knife on him, and I didn't either for some reason, maybe because I'd flown? But anyway, we are in a small hallway waiting for an elevator, which has a big rugged platform in front of it, and a guy comes up and asks to get on the elevator with us and says he promises not to stab us, and Evan says no way, and then the elevator comes and the guys jumps in front of us and gets on. Then we are waiting for the next one and this guy comes up and sees Evan's sweatshirt and says, "hey is that a Void pin?" and I get up in front of the elevator so we can get on this one this time and Evan tells the guy that even though he can read punk logos doesn't mean he's trustworthy, and the elevator comes and the guy pushes Evan and gets on with me just as the door closes, and then holds up a knife to my breast plate and just as he is about to really dig it in, the doors open and there's this incredible light and the guy says something to me I couldn't understand or else just don't remember, and leaves. I get our and try to adjust my eyes and realize I am outside at an other plane of existence and hope that Evan is ok and hasn't been killed and wonder how long I should wait for him before running to my protection. That's when I woke up.


When I fell back to sleep someone gave me a knife, and then the dog jumped on me and I woke up again. There were a few more moments of this dream carrying further but I don't know what happened.

dating games

Lat night I dreamt that I was real sick and staying at Steve's my uncle through Patty. Amanda was living with him but she was younger, not married or in the army or with a kid or anything like that. The house was huge, with a floor each for Amanda, Patty, and Steve; Trish wasn't in the dream because she had moved out, and Patty wasn't in the dream because she's passed away. Anyway I was sick and trying to make food and Steve kept telling me to make omelets and eggs and stuff like that because it would make me happy and feel better. Then he said I should take a shower and brought me to Patty's shower. Everything was really new and fancy, not really their style. I got frustrated and left and had Major Tom with me, and we were in Boston, and suddenly there was casting for a dating show sort of along the lines of Singled Out but not, and a bunch of friends were there and i remembered that this was something that went on every year in Boston and I always loved it, and Major Tom and I went into this warehouse place and they separated the girls from the boys, and there was this other boy there who had a dog and we were both trying to hide our dogs. I got mad because he was standing with the girls, right next to me, and Iknew Major Tom was going to freak out and cause a scene and we'd get kicked out, but he just nipped a little and the boy smiled and I woke up. He had a pug with blue healer type markings.

AHOY

Submarine
, for Laura Nelson





I hope it was a hard splash. A cold one—

even for New England docks. I hope it felt like rain

on stage at an outside amphitheatre,

like a worthy opponent.



I hope it felt like flight, vertigo, snow in June,

that you saw some god upside-down and vulnerable

right before you hit the sea. I hope you jumped

sideways, shouting obscenities like, "man overboard!"

to the gulls, and I hope they flocked to your wave.



I want to think it felt like sinking

into wood, absorption into a redwood tree.

I hope you could hear the crack.

Tell me about the voices you heard

going down, if all those other friends came

to life to see you plummet. It is miserable

thinking it was on purpose but still

I hope it was no accident—



That the summer bridge, the train tracks

were all planned, the oversized booze

and your favorite red shirt, all planned

and marked on some calendar tucked

in the breast pocket. I want to think it stung



but didn't hurt, that it was all crash,

splash, bullseye on the moon's path,

falling, never hitting bottom.

day at the museum

Last night I dreamt that Harrison, Carmen, and I were at a museum. I remember we were goofing off a lot, and I did something weird but I don't remember what, something with the security guard. I went over to see my friends and they had stolen this huge gem out of a vault and we all had to run away. We hid for a while behind a car in the parking lot, and the security guard caught Carmen, but instead of arresting her or using her as collateral to get Harrison and I, he said he had made a poor WANTED poster for her and that he needed more accurate information. As we had run off, it wasn't proper procedure to capture us himself, but someone else must now, and then bring us through the investigation process. Harrison explained to me from behind the car that the security at this museum was sub par and they will probably be fired, there'd been talks already. It wasn't necessarily the guards themselves, but the regulated level of security they are asked to provide. Their tier, so to speak. Anyway, Carmen was let free and we all ran away.



Strange.

This is what it's sometimes like to bump into people from highschool, college, etc.  You're either holding the gallon of PCP or you're working at "Blinko's." 

I submitted two essays to a literary journal yesterday, and three poems to a contest today.  By Thursday I must submit another essay to another journal.  Hopefully something will get picked up.  Friday I have an appointment with Sheryl to discuss Oaxaca and possible credits.  I feel on top of my game.  Lauren's chapbook is done and edited and everything, I'm just waiting for Sheryl's blurb and Lauren's photograph.  I got an A on my midterm project.  I've realized I want to be the best at everything.  Not to be better than my peers, I want them to be the best too.  But I want people to look at what I do and think, "Holy crap, rattail girl did that?"  International fame.  Historic recognition.  Cultural peace through my art and actions.  Is that too much to ask?

Shakes is in town.  Last weekend was a rare occasion of actually socializing with friends (not Shakes, though I did come home from work to hear him scratching my records in the living room, which was a wonderful noise because I knew he was in town and that it was likely him breaking everything) and baking pies and sitting in my room with everyone trying not to seem as lame and crotchety as I am nodding off on my bed while they chat away at a normal pace for the time of night.  It is so good to have such great people in my life as Evan, Leanne, Emily, Shakes, and my roommates.  All of them make my world so much easier and much more pleasant to wake up to, especially on days when it is grey and snowy outside and I have to ride my bike to work.  At least I can wake up and know there are such cool people sleeping in their own (or someone else's) beds somewhere nearby.

Yesterday was Evan's Gramma Dee's birthday (77th and maybe she'll kill me for posting that, maybe she won't, I think it's pretty rad and anyway not all that old, Nana Ollie is 86, almost 87 now right?  and still chasing old men up trees).  So I went to work with Soupie and the dog.  Major Tom made a new friend, which brings his friend tally up to what, eight?  He's not very popular.  But he is great once that initial introduction is over with when he tries to bite the other dog in the neck.  Anyway we left Major Tom at Evan's mom's house and caravanned over to Dee's.  Details aside, she liked the pie I made her, or pretended to anyway, and filled Jodie's car up with more crap than you'd like to believe, the whole trunk and most of the back seat was completely full.  We of course had to take some home, so if anyone would like some fudge brownie-flavored coffee (right, coffee that's flavored like fudge brownie, not the other way around) or 100-calorie granola bars or microwave cheese dip or "cereal cookies" or salsa or mustard just let me know.  If you want silk poinsettas or "lava cake" or almond syrup or french toast flavored coffee (yeah you read that right) or play-dough or hawaiian food glaze that takes like vomit, just let Soupie know and he'll arrange with his mother, I'm sure she'd be pleased.

Senegalese Dreams

I don't have much time to write, but I feel like this has been period of my life where I've actually been doing things. I just realized it the other day, that I have for once been thoroughly productive and on top of my game. Lauren's chapbook is ready to go to print once Sheryl sends me her blurb and Lauren's photographer sends me a photo. I've filed my taxes. I have been working on applying for a Fulbright Grant to study religion as boundary in Senegal and the surrounding nations. I have been touching up on my Spanish in preparation for Oaxaca, and in fact am studying soon with Neil, every Tuesday at 6:30 He will teach my Spanish and I will cook him dinner. I have a few packages to send out to writing contests. Things are good.



This morning, with a bang-over from last night's show, charging like a bull into bullet belts and walls of people that were surprisingly thin and very close to concrete walls, I rode my bike to campus to meet with Drs. Sene and Ayuninjam to discuss my project proposal, what to expect, where to get started, etc. While I do not know quite enough to have questions formulated just yet, they have presented themselves as excellent and willing resources to help me in my nagivation through information to create a polished proposal concept. They've lent me books (some of them in French and out of print, which is quite an honor and also horrifying) and printed me out some information left over from classes they'd taught, and most importantly (or at least as importantly) they wished me "bon courage" and have faith that this is a worthy topic of research that will be welcome in the region in which I am studying.



This also helps with my nonfiction class, which for spring break presented the assignment of reading a book that expanded our viewpoint. I have been reading the Moon tourbook on Oaxaca, but I feel these classics on Senegalese culture and history will be a fine addition. Here are the titles, I'll link what I can:

L'Islam et les Pratiques Cultuelles, by Muohamadou Makhtar Thiam

L'Exil Au Gabon, periode coloniale 1895-1902, 'sue les Traces de Cheikh Ahmadou Bamba, by Cheikh Abdoulaye Dieye

Que Saise-je? Le Senegal et la Gambie, by Hubert Deschamps

Conversations with Ogotemmeli, and Introduction to Dogon Religoius Ideas, by Marcel Greaule. Here is a link to a briefing on Dogons.

African Leaders: State of Africa Report 2005, by Boston University African Presidential Archives and Research Center



Just looking at some of these getting my brain thinking in French again. Which is confusing when I've been trying to think in Spanish for quite some time now, to no success. I am excited and happy, and feel like my life is just on a constant uplift, dispite the downswings that occasionally take place. And for the most part, those don't even happen to me, just to people I love. I wrote a poem last night, a eulogy for Laura. It felt good to finally say something.



Wednesday was Evan and my one year anniversary. Truthfully it isn't but it was the day of the punk show he helped me set up, and as had a sort of date, even though we hung out regularly with mutual interest before that. This is at least something with a date attached to it. We have out wedding anniversary coming up at the end of April, which Evan says he considers more our anniversary (weirdo) but he will be in Mexico then so maybe we will celebrate on May 2nd when I arrive in Acapulco. Anniversaries are weird, anyway. I think they are great, just as I think birthdays are great, but that doesn't keep me from remembering dates, holidays, special occasions. I'm a horrible personal journalist.



my armpits are itchy. I think it's time to shave them. Drink more coffee. Eat yer cereal with a knife.

getting laid off means more reason to explore

I was going to do a classic "good news/bad news" post but I believe all my news is good so I will just do a good news/good news" post unless I can think of anything.  For bad news, check out Soupie's blog ("you poor bastard!" sorry pookie).

The good news is I bought my tickets to Mexico, and despite the hike in oil prices, it was a breeze $337 round trip, including traveler's insurance in case I lose my hand and need medical assistance pronto, or come down with dysentery, or my flight's delayed for days or something.  I bought the tickets because I knew I would end up wanting to go regardless of what my work said, and I knew they were going to let me go anyway, even though they hadn't given me a straight answer.  So I have been studying the region to try to decipher the best way to utilize my ten days there (which is really only 8 since the travel is long.

The good news is that I did not act incorrectly, as my work did grant me the days off, no problem.  However, they are laying me off at the end of May, so I will be gone for a week (four days) of work, then come back for another few weeks, on the 12th, and then work for another couple weeks and then I'm done.

But the good news is they are laying me off not because they are dissatisfied with my job there, but because one of my bosses is moving her practice mainly to Alabama, working in Pittsburgh every other two-weeks, so the other attorney, who will be taking on most of her cases, wishes to hire a paralegal to help her out, rather than a secretary who does not do research, etc.  Attorney 1 says that I do a paralegal's job right now so attorney 2 will be sad once she has to pay someone more money to do the same job, but probably not as well.

This also means that I am going to be on unemployment, so I will still be receiving money while I am in school, so I can work on my thesis and leisurely try to find another good job, without being pressed to find one immediately in order to keep up with bills, etc.  Since I will have some time on my hands, I am looking at applying for grants, specifically the Fulbright Fellowship which supports students and artists (I am both!) in their overseas endeavors.  I have a meeting with a representative on Friday.

Since these last semesters I will just be working on my thesis, plus taking on one class which if I can come up with an itinerary for Oaxaca, will be taken care of in May, I don't have to be in Pittsburgh too much.  I am looking forward to be a bit of freedom and room to move, since my schedule has been rather packed, though I have been enjoying my time as I've been spending it.  I like being busy, feeling like I have some semblance of a purpose.

It also means I can perhaps visit friends just within the US or elsewhere.  I miss a lot of people.  Sometimes the internet is good for relieving that, but sometimes it just makes it worse.

As a final good news since my hands are getting cold and stiff, not like dead but like winter, tonight I made a delicious dinner.  Here is the very basic recipe.  Cut a Spaghetti squash in half, scoop out seeds, and bake for 45 minutes at about 425F, in a pan with about an inch and a half of water (so it's steam-baked, in a sense).
Cube a block of extra firm tofu.  Put it in a bowl with stir fry sauce, Braggs, honey, and flax seeds, and mix.  Let marinade.
Chop and saute onions and garlic, then add shittake mushrooms cut into slivers.  Steam kale, chard, and spinach, in whatever ratio you need to get rid of rotting veggies.  Pour some water into saute pan if it looks like it's drying, then a bit of salt.  absorb water into vegetables, then when onions are carmelized, scoop it all out and put on a plate.
sprinkle corn starch into tofu bowl a little at a time while stirring.  Pour into pan, complete w/ excess sauce from the  bottom of the bowl.  add a tiny bit of oil.  Chop up ginger into tiny pieces and add to pan.  Let fry, but keep an eye on it through the next stage, flipping tofu every so often to make sure it gets cooked all around and doesn't burn.
Take squash out of oven, assuming it's done by now.  flip over so they're on their skins and scoop out flesh from one half (a squash feeds 4 hungry people, but we were just two hungry people so we only used half).  It will look like spaghetti, hence the name.  place it on a plate, as there will be a pretty big pile.

When tofu is done, scoop onion mix on top of tofu, in pan, and mix quickly.  Place back on plate and place on heating rack if your kitchen is fancy like mine and has one.  Don't forget about the greens!  If you haven't turned that off already, do so now before your spinach disappears (it happens!)
Melt a bit of margarine in pan.  Flush squash from plate into pan and mix up so it all gets a tiny bit of butter on it.  Add spices to taste: cinnamon, cumin, curry, basil, cloves.  Let simmer in pan for a couple minutes so the flavors can seep into the squash.
Place squash on two plates, cover with chunks of tofu mix, then dress with greens on the side.  Serve with roibos tea (I had jasmine).

bon apetite!