emma b. says

Monday, October 29, 2007

A Blood Moon and Other Things

Without any discernable rhythm time just fluctuates, sometimes with a wink, some afternoons seem interminable.

I walk. I do half assed pilates in the living room. I make tentative phone calls in search of employment. I look at houses. Lots of houses.

On Saturday frere, bellesoeur and a few of their peers went out to see Broken Social Scene, first we went to low brow Mexican at some place that is one hundred percent fiesta one hundred percent of the time, what the beans lack is made up for in atmosphere and very large margaritas. But, the mariachi band was worth the price of admission, was perhaps better than the band.

I had a good time, I got high. It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, as in high I mean a substance slightly more toothsome than you're great american green. Seemed even more brilliant-er to do more, after the show, what ho, thought I, I danced my pants off.

My real estate agent came to fetch me the following morning, where is was very clear to me that those carefree days of drugs taking were long over. I put on my good soldier face and carried on. I saw a few contenders, my litmus test seems to be can I envision myself in the kitchen in the morning in my slippers.

I met the Runner in the late afternoon, for late afternoon antics and a nice long walk. After tater tots, Portland I love you and your tater tots, we walked along the river in the dark under a blood moon.

It's dark here, at night. I am sure it's a function of ambient light, the streets are not coated in street lights and traffic like I am accustomed to... Driving home last night at nine on a Sunday there was nearly no traffic, like the city was deserted, it was really strange... I nearly said "back home", wait, I did, but in SF, there is noise and light, someone is always awake and someone is always driving, short of that there is MUNI rumbling past my former bedroom at 20 minute intervals at all hours, always.

I have been here 19 days. I keep trying to check in with myself, you know, all friendly like, as in how you doing girl, and finding myself largely evasive, but largely OK, it's impossible to articulate the disconnect, it's like trying to stick push pins through cumulus clouds, what I cleave to is this adamant certainty that everything is going to be alright and just surrender.

Walking by the river in the dark, I said to the Runner that I am not used to still water. I have seen the bay becalmed, but even then you can track the currents, this river, the Willamette, she is slow and dirty, she smells slightly swampy and I can taste the oil in the water. I miss brine. I miss the rightness of belonging.


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