a jumble of tiny, stale thoughts

When I was small, probably four years old, I recall waking up really early one morning, just before sunrise, and looking out the front windows. I was living in Paris desert California, and I could see the sierra mountains and an open plain. The sky was amny shades of blue, but the sun that had not yet shown itself was still making its presence know by causing the blue hues to be especially vibrant this time of the morning. that sky, the early morning crisp all managed to make fill up my little four year old heart with love for the world as I knew it. It was the first time in my life I can remember looking at something and understanding that it was beautiful.

A second time in my life, I saw a sky like that, when I was working at the gas station on Spenard and Minnesota, I could see that same sky only now it was over the Chugach range. And for the first time I thought back on that morning so long ago so far away and I could barely contain my mirth. I'm not certain how I managed to do my menial job without quitting, and taking my newfound inspiration with me.

This morning when I woke, the light was similiar but the sky was not. A bit disappointing, yes, but if I were lucky enough to see my morning sky all the time, would it still hold the same magic and enigma?

Everyday this place feels more like home. I have found myself making seemingly small additions in the form of useful household items, like a nice tea pot and a decent set of kitchen knives. So much of my daily living stems from an amalgamation of the many friends with whom I have lived, and from whom I have learned so much, especially Micah. Micah taught me to appreciate every decision as important. He often said "If it is worth deciding, it is worth considering."

Am I an existentialist? I cherish freedom above all things, and yet I believe that I have an obligation not just to myself, but to others. I cannot articulate this well enough for any philosophy majors, but I can say that while I am certain I am not a nihilist, because while I love freedom I do not see all forms of a social contract as restricting of my freedoms, if it is understood that this obligation is one based upon a sort of humanism, and not on any type of value system, from which the do-gooder achieves points towards some ultimate goal (like heaven or karma). Because I do not believe in life after death, my persistent belief in God then negates any assumptions of selfish motivations where my altruism is conserned.

Miles is cleansing.

When I hear anything from John Mayer's "Room for Squares", I think of winter 2003, living with Danny, and how wonderful that was. So what will I think of years from now about Portland? Probably when I hear Third Eye Blind's Wake for Young Souls, anything from Bright Eye's album "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning, and Rufus Waignwright singing "Hallelujah", I will think of walking downtown, especially through Marquam Hill, and the one and only day of my life I thought that maybe I should consider going into the medical field. How i wanted to live in Marquam hill, in the apartments that sit right on the bend of the road that over looks the Max station and the rest of the city, and how I wanted to live there while I went to UO medical school. Another fantasy that will never be true.



I watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time tonight. I really did not think I would care for it. I thought too many people I knew had loved it, and so I probably would find it formulaic at best.

It made me think. I mean really think. It's still making me and so it is best if I finish this when I have thought all the things I can about this movie, about what the subject represents for me.

I was just writing about memory yesterday morning.
Living at the Carlson's was one the worst experiences I have ever had, living with Danny was frustrating and incredibly difficult. Loving Kyle and Dalyn and Allison and Krista and Amanda and Micah and Izbit and losing them has been a pain so indescribable I believe i would have to know a dozen more languages to be able to find a sentence that would do the feeling any justice.

I would not trade those memories for fake ones that were happy, or trade them for nothing at all.

People I suppose often forget that in order to have good memories, you must have bad ones. How else would you know the difference?

Memory for me is a very tangible thing. It is like drinking cold water after a hard run. I need my memories to survive. There is a place that seems...

But sometimes I forget too, and that is the worst thing. It took me so long to remember things about my childhood and even high school, because somehow my brain, without my permission, had repressed them, even good memories, and i do not know why. And yet otherwise I have an excellent memory. For example, I do not for the life of me know what Allison and I did on out first date, or rather, I have a memory of a date but I am unsure if that was our first date (was it Empire Records? Damn). Yet I remember so many little things, like the feel of her mother's couch on my back, and the music stand in her bedroom at her father's house. How contrasted those two rooms seemed to be. One a home, the other a hotel room. And yet she seemed to love her dad more than her mother, but I especially know how misleading day to day interactions can be to the ignorant observer. I remember butting my elbows on the wall playing pool.Oh god, I brought kyle there to play pool. And I admitted my interest to Allison, but I really did not think Kyle would have me. She was too perfect, and too educated, to sophisticated for me. Oh, Allison, you have no idea how much I learned from you. I had never heard of people making their own salad dressing, or anything remotely similiar to the life you lead. Your life was so very different from mine, your relationships so strange to me. Your mom and dad seemed to genuinely care for you, you were not something they cared for out of obligation, and I did not envy you, I admired them, and I felt genuinely unworthy of your affections. You must know I am a very self-defecating person. I for so long held little belief in my own worth. That is no excuse for my horrid behavior thus far, but it is the reason behind so many seemingly bizzare events. Like when we made love and i told you I thought I was insane. Well, I did, but I only said it because I was scared of making love to you that way, even more afraid of you making love to me. I always felt like I did not deserve affection, that loving you should be enough, and that I deserved no reciprocation. A very fucked up view point, but I still feel that sometimes to this day. I've gotten better about liking myself, and yet I am repulsed by so much of me it often takes me off guard. I almost cried today, in the middle of something that no one would cry during. I held it back, and I pushed it away but I feel it again. God I can be such an angry person, I can get so filled with rage over something ridculous, but I recognize the irrationality immediately and quell it. It scares me even so, and I worry if I will be a bad parent one day. Will i hit my kids? I would kill myself. I'm so afraid I turn out like my mother. Am I like her? I love her, but I pity her, I can't stand her because I remember all the unpeakable things, yet I remember the good things I forgive her. Am I a hypocrite? Please tell me, am I? Kyle was not pleased when I renewed ties with my mother after I moved out. She felt it was unhealthy and terrible for me. She was right, jesus I moved three thousand miles away. Was it really because of the weather, or am I trying to stay as far from her orbit as possible?

I have to return my books today. I wonder if Michael will help me. The library is not far, but I have almost thirty books. I bet he won't mind. The wind is blowing so hard now. the flapping of the flags sounds like fake thunder on a movie set. I love it when the trees are wet with new leaves, the dark bark makes them seem flourescent. I want to take the train downtown. It's early and there's nothing to do but I can't sleep. I can sit with my music and my notebooks and pretend she is sitting next to me, with her head on my shoulder, asking me to read to her because the ride is so long and she doesn't want to fall asleep on a train. I will kiss her forehead affectionately and tell her I love her smell. I will ask her if she wants a shoulder rub and she will look at me incredulous as if to ask 'Are you kidding?' and then she will wiggle sideways and lean into me as I massage her tense shoulders. I will ask her to hold the notebook and I will begin to read:

The best place to see the night sky was behind the dumpsters that lined the edge of his apartment building. It was here, amongst the filth and and stench of others that he felt most whole, and he knew his place in the universe.

There was a bird being blow by the wind as badly as the pages of my book. He made it to the tarnished copper roof of the old overhang, and began to tell me of his many complaints. Mostly he spoke of how much hotter it had seemed to him from last year's winter, and how he wished the wind would blow itself away. He asked me if I'd anything to eat, and I told him no, nothing but a bit of parchment and a half used pen. He sighed and told me that bread would have done nicely, but he would forgive me this time.

Then I stood and wrote on the old cement wall "I love you" in large cursive letters. I told the bird goodbye and promised a feast when next we met. He squawked in disbelief and began repeating his old complaints to the woman now stooping on her cane, readying herself to sit on the warm seat I had left her.

A yard or so away, I turned back quickly and sprinted to the overhang. The old woman seemed startled, the bird merely chirp unhappily. I leaned back down and in small, print letters next to my larger words I wrote, "I love you too."

And as I slow my rubbing, she will turn her head upwards and say "Kiss me will you, I feel awfully cold."
And I would. Oh how I would.