I have been enjoying the comfort of my little Xanga family over the past year, and – My first year anniversary is coming up soon – I have come to feel secure in the knowledge that I can post whatever comes up, and you’ll still be here in the morning.  I sought you out or maybe you found me, I can’t remember which, but, however we came together, I feel safe with you.  I respect you and your writing and value your opinion.  And you all know how much I rely on your opinion as I work my way through these chapters.  Some of you suggest things that I change immediately and other times I like it that something sits funny with you.  I want it to.  But I need the feedback to know how it hits you.  One of the reasons you’re on my protected list is that you’re honest with me.

So these last two days I woke up to a whole bunch of comments from strangers.  Wonderful strangers from what I can tell.  I rushed around to get a look at everyone and was thrilled.  Now, maybe I’ll never see any of these people again but maybe they’ll be reading this.  So, if you are I just want to say that I am going to get back to the book now, and that means I write protected.  And if you’re not used to going there, ask me how.  Someone once likened it to announcing a party and then not inviting everyone.  And I’m sooo not like that but when it comes to this book I feel protective about who reads it, at this point.  I need to maintain a level of comfort if I am to fully engage with the page. J  Give me a week to get to know you, and if I’ve subscribed I’ll put you on the list.  There are writers I look at and think Oh, God, I wouldn’t want them to see unfinished work and then there are those I almost plead with to look at my work.  You know how it is.  It’s one thing to find a good writer but it’s another thing to feel a connection.  I have been blessed to find both in this circle of friends.

My Hometown, the Real Story

My Hometown

When I was eight we moved to the west side.  It was still a suburb of Portland, Oregon but the small, run-down, city blocks I rode my bike to school on were replaced with one, long, sprawl of undeveloped land between the river and highway 43, which took us past Marylhurst college to downtown Portland.  Last year I came full-circle and bought a house two blocks from where one of our family businesses was, very near the neighborhood I was born in.  I had come from Lake Oswego.  Nothing much has changed over here on the east side, at least not in these parts.  On the other hand, West Linn, and Lake Oswego, in particular, is no place I want to be.  The people who have come from other parts and made it into a foreign land ruined it for me.

In the new neighborhood, my mother approved of the children so we were able to come and go as we pleased.  Now we rode a school bus and our new friends lived a long ways on bike.  The few houses on our street were surrounded by forest so there were tree forts, underground forts, everyone had a fort.  Long afternoons were spent shimmying over fallen trees, across streams, swimming in the polluted Willamette River. This time of year we’d pick blackberries along our secret trail to the river.  My best friend lived across the street but she went to a private Catholic school in Lake Oswego, the next town over.  We’d sleep in my brother’s tent in the backyard and sneak out at night, going for long walks to the college.  She called it a hobo-hike because we’d tie a bandana to a stick, in order to carry midnight snacks.

The nuns were the only other walkers in those days; two-by-two in their habits, they’d make the processional, just past our house and then turn around to go back to Marylhurst.  Now our old street is laden with bikers and joggers, and our berry-picking path is gated. 

West Linn was made up of farmers and mill workers in those days so while I was playing Baroque music with the Recorder Society, my friends were at the bowling alley.  But that’s what’s great about Portland, it’s a good mix. 

Every Saturday morning we’d drive to Lake Oswego, to shop.  My parents frowned on the nouveau riche living in Dunthorpe and around the lake, and the kids at my school said L.O. kids were all on drugs.  I noticed L.O. boys were cuter and the girls had nicer clothes. 

My routine was to go to the library for a couple hours, replenishing the week’s supply.  They had a brand new library and it was never easy to leave.  But I’d go have a coke at the drugstore counter and read magazines for an hour.  My sister got a job at the theater so then I started going to the movies every week.  It was a rich life for a dreamer.

Once I was old enough to take the bus into Portland, my best friend and I would spend every Saturday trying on clothes.  We each babysat and that’s where our money went.  In those days Portland had a store called Bergs and I can still remember the smell of the oatmeal-honey soap we’d get.  We’d go up to the tenth floor at Meier and Frank, to the soda fountain, and sit at the counter with our milkshakes. 

The core of downtown hasn’t changed all that much.  I suspect it still looks like the provincial town it used to be.  But with all the new blood from California and the east, we have a city that boasts a happenin’ music and literary scene with skiing and surfing an hour away.  I’m still here because of the land.  I haven’t found a blackberry patch yet, that’s not been sprayed, but I’m down at the river again, only on the east side.

I never know, when people come into my life, what they might mean to me.  I can just tell it’s something.  My radar goes off.  When I was younger I wasn’t that in tune with the Universe but, lately, man. 

Maybe it’s what I can mean to them.  I wonder if it’s supposed to be a reciprocal thing; you each have something the other needs? 

I’m reading a book about a young woman who, at a pivotal point in her life, finds direction from a book she’s read.  And it happens a second time with the same author.  I threw more wood on the fire, waiting for the coals to be ready, sat back down and read a sentence that changed me.  That’s being dramatic.  It shed light on something; I needed to know it.

I’ll probably always remember that ah-haaa moment; how I was camping.  And what’s eerie is that before it happened I thought of the very afternoon, the moment I first read Thoreau’s “Walden.”  I was sitting in a lit class at the University of Oregon, turning my face towards the window so no one would see the tears.  It was spring, and I can still remember those light-green trees filtering the sun, how the windows were up high.  I was 18 but it took me 30 years to camp.  I’m thinking in ten more I might be ready for the cabin.

I thought about the people in my life, those I’ve learned from, and some of them are you.  We have a fantastic community here at Xanga, and I learn something every day. Young and old, our teachers come to us in all forms.  And when I think I’ve found one I don’t worry any more about what it is I’m supposed to learn, I just try to pay attention, because sooner or later it will come to me.

Does tonight’s feel too much like stuff I’ve already said?

You know how people used to italicize words that needed emphasis?  And that’s probably still the accepted way of doing things.  But I’ve noticed some of you capping instead.  And I like that.  It’s especially effective if you want to lean on one syllable.  And I think for blogs it’s completely appropriate so I’m doing it, too.  But what about actual work you’d submit?  I tried it in tonight’s chapter and it looks a little juvenile to me.  What do you think?

I love being old enough to have memories of how the city used to be.  Walking around downtown tonight called up all the hot summer nights I’d spent strolling through the streets when everyone was out late waiting for it to cool down.  I’ve always lived in the suburbs so trips to town at night were infrequent.  Except for when I was belly dancing but then I was always half naked and in a bad part of town, hurrying to my car.

Tonight I went to the Bite, a festival down on the waterfront featuring lots of bands and small plates of specialties done by our local restaurants.  My new friend Marla (yes, I know.  I borrowed her name for one of my characters) invited me to go with a bunch of her friends.  I get invited now to all her stuff, and I feel so lucky because these people are lots of fun.  They’re all in their 30s but I seem to fit right in.  I’m not much of a beer drinker but it was so hot that I got in line for an amber ale.  Boy was it good.  And huge.  I was just about done when Marla’s husband, this sweetheart-of-a guy says, “You look like you’re ready.  I’m gonna go get us another.”  Marla and the rest of “the girls” were drinking wine.  He came back with another gigantic beer, and somehow I drank it.

But halfway through it became urgent that I get some food in me.  I excused myself saying I was going for food and ventured into the crowd.  That’s when I realized this was the first time I’d been to something like this alone.  I’m used to linking my arm through my date’s so that I’m not required to look where I’m going.  This frees me up to watch people.  I have to say Portland boasts some really authentic looking people.  It’s just been ages since I’ve been out at night milling around like that.  I felt so free and alive.  It’s just another cool thing to do in the summer. 

I went to the Street of Dreams last week, another summer tradition.  I left so inspired I bought a crow bar and pulled up all the strips that were holding the carpet down.  I’d pulled the carpet up ages ago but couldn’t get the strips up. This was in the kitchen.   I was needlessly intimidated by those nasty strips.  I’m well on my way to finding the nerve to hire someone to start ripping the shit out of this place.  I make such a big deal about stuff, like it’s too hard, or I’ll screw it up.  And I use the money as an excuse; that “I don’t want to part with it.”

I remember the first time I wrote a post here.  I went over it and over it checking for mistakes, worrying it wasn’t good enough.  When I hit the submit button and saw the finished product it looked like I knew what I was doing. I felt so legitimate.  Tonight when I was walking around the city, all by myself, I felt extra confident, like it was my city and I knew it backwards and forwards; like I belonged.

What the hell?  It used to just be one or two of you I wouldn’t get, in my subs list, but it’s grown so I went to inquire and found this:

“On July 22, 2003, we eliminated the anonymous subscriptions features.  As part of that transition, we deleted all existing anonymous subscriptions”

The only thing I can figure is that when I hit the subscribe button, after reading enough of you that I was sure I wanted you in my life, I was doing in anonymously.  I never even noticed that as an option but whatever.  So I guess I will just resubscribe to those of you I’ve not been getting and hope that works.  Until I get this book done I’m staying protected, trying to post at least every other day.