Oh say can you see...

Today the sun is out and the sky is blue and there's a warm lazy wind petting the scenesters in the Pearl. My head feels full of air and goo and I can feel the damn bugs swimmin' in my system. I really can't be sick right now, though I'd love to have a 4-day weekend. I've got the market on Saturday and I reaaaaaaally need the money.

Independence day is nearing and I feel excited. I am not your typical flag waver, but I see this day as more of a family holiday. Christmas, Birthdays, Pascha, these are the holidays with expectation and disappointment. Thanksgiving is near my dad's birthday, but to me, it is a warm and loving holiday filled with laughter, cheesy amber-colored wineglasses, and a food coma like no other.

The 4th of July is similar. I remember sitting on the porch of our house in Ashland, smiling at the sun, and spitting watermelon seeds into the driveway. The four of us kids and whichever of our friends happened to be around consumed my mom’s barbecued chicken, hotdogs, and potato salad. Later at dark, on blankets in the schoolyard, we waited impatiently for the pyrotechnics. At every spectacular display we'd ask, "Was that the finale?" Only to be surprised with an even better sequence of fireworks. I loved the way my sun-warmed skin felt at the cooling end of the day in a big sweatshirt.

This sort of nostalgia brings back the swimming hole. Every year some high school kids would build a barrier in the river (or crick, for that's what it really was.) The barrier made the swimming hole deeper, but still allowed things to go on downstream. A clearing in the trees let the sunlight in to warm our bodies after being in that ice-melt. I was always very creeped out by the strange water insects that used teeny pebbles and sand to build a tubular shell. They didn't move fast, but I imagined stepping on them and feeling simultaneously guilty and terrified.

Once my sister, Caitlin, was lying facedown in the shallows and my mom freaked out and yanked her up out of the water. She was just watching the tiny fish swim through the sun-dappled water.

Last summer I spent as much time as possible swimming at the base of a waterfall with Charley, Pickle, Alex and Vicky. This summer I may not find a swimming hole. If this is true, I must make one in my mind and go there whenever it's hot and I'm lonely. Maybe the neighborhood kids will let me run through their sprinkler a couple of times.

This 4th I believe that I will be drinking and carousing with the Portland kids. Many of us have to work the 5th, so a last blast at the amazing Ashland 4th is out of the question. It's too bad that we'll miss the eccentric parade, the fighter jet fly-over, the gigantic fireworks display, and getting sauced on the plaza. However, it's really too good that my best friend lives up the street, my boy and I are still in love, and dear Kasey and Aric are in town from New York.

So.

Here's to
friends
and family
and neighbors
and potato salad
and cheap beer
and fireworks
and charcoal briquettes
and marching bands
and July 4, 1776!

4 by 6 Inch Secrets

I love this site. It is so beautiful.

PostSecret

This is one secret:

A good thing, or two.

I'm fortified with Yo's delicious tofu and rice.

Last night Ben and I went to Yur's for some french fries and a drink. The Spurs were playing the Pistons in the final game of the season and the bartender had money on the Spurs. So we celebrated by turning off their TV a couple minutes 'til the buzzer. Ha. When the fans were freaking out, the other bartender said,
"Watch the other fucking TV, it's bigger anyway." Ha.

We headed over the river and through the woods and dropped the car off at home, then walked down to Fire on the Mountain for some take-out Buffalo Chicken salad, which is fantastic. [Fire on the Mountain has an amazing draught beer selection--Roots IPA, a new brewery on Hawthorne; Terminal Gravity IPA, my favorite; Caldera, from my hometown; Amnesia, the favorite neighborhood beer place.] We drank beers while we waited and read completely out-of-date Trivial Pursuit questions. Apparently in the mid-80s things in the world were veeeeery different. I don't remember because I was too busy watching Dallas and dancing to Madonna.

Salad in bag, we walked to the park so that I could fly my kite in the dying light and weak wind. Though I thoroughly enjoyed my beach kite-flying experience, I feel that flying a one-stringer in a field is the way to go. I mean, that's really my kind of kite flying.

You run so fast because you must and if you slow the kite falters and so you run until you can't breathe or you run out of field or you trip over a baseball that kids left on the diamond. The kite, out of wind, slowly meanders to the ground. You roll up that string and do it all over again. When you feel the kite rise into the air and that tug in your hand, it's good to whoo-hoo because the kite likes it.

I found three baseballs near the pitcher's mound, so I pitched 'em all. Two strikes, one ball, I think. Which reminds me that I'm mad at Matt because he went to a game last night and didn't call me. Dummy. Oh well, I wouldn't want to cramp his style with the ladies. Heh. Oh, and I figured out why Ben despises baseball. He grew up in the Carolina's and them southerners ain't got no real baseball. They're all about crazy college crap down thar. We're just wondering what a tarheel is.

To wrap it up: we ate salad, went home, drank vodka, and tried to get Mikah drunk while he fished for kittens.

I found this thing that is very inspiring:
When Wes Anderson was making the Royal Tenenbaums, he asked his brother Eric to draw out his [Wes'] ideas. He always kept notebooks, etc., with his ideas, but would usually find them after the movie was made. So Wes and Eric Anderson and their amazing brains created a crazy lovely world. It's like Edward Gorey, but sweeter. And with Ben Stiller.

I hate you, Rainbow Butterfly.

i'm just trying to watch a little video on msnbc, but apparently:

MSN Video does not support your computer's operating system.

Fuck you, Bill Gates.

In order for me to watch Tom Cruise being rude to a talk show dude, I must have the following things:

Windows 98 Second Edition, Windows 2000, Windows Millennium Edition, or Windows XP installed.

Windows, windows, windows. I am starting to feel like Jan Brady.

Oh I am so mad. Okay, so we use Explorer sometimes for cataloguing AND of course we must have the bullshit suite [Word, Excel, Powerpoint, etc.] But why, oh why when I am bored and hungover at work will they not let me watch Stupid McCruise make a fool o' hisself?!

Last night I was discussing with Ben what to do with my PC laptop. I was thinking of selling it, or even upgrading, but now, I think I will do horrible things to it and mail it to Mr. Gates. Ha. That'll show 'im what I think of his company.

Fuck Word
Fuck Excel (only a little, unless someone knows of an open-source version 'cause I need it)
Fuck Microsoft Money
Fuck Internet Explorer (especially)
Fuck Tom Cruise
Fuck MSNBC
Fuck Windows

whew. I'm hungry.


[Addenda: I tried to post this to myspace, however, I was given two separate error messages. The second said that it was a WindowsNT Number 2 error, or something. Now, I am not generally paranoid, but Brennan, one of our IT guys, was right there when it happened and he informed me that Myspace is owned by Microsoft. So, if this doesn't post here, I am going to be even more fumier. Yes, that is a word.

Also, in order that I might calm down, I took a look at the "Pictorial Archive of Printer's Ornaments from the Renaissance to the 20th Century." Amazing. Such design. And at a time when the operating system was the brain, the hand, the press. Sigh. As I type. At least it's a Mac.]

The Restaurant of Renjitsu

The time is now 10:43 a.m. and I am hungover. While I drank my first cup of coffee, I made myself a breakfast sandwich. I'll try to write about it as if it were on a menu:
Smoky Dill Egg-Sandwich
Two farm-fresh eggs scrambled with dill, maitake mushrooms, scallions, and smoky sharp cheddar. Topped with turkey bacon and sliced tomato and sandwiched by honey wheat-berry bread. Yum.
I forgot to salt and pepper, but it's still good.

Pearl Market again today and I don't want to go. This 6 days/week thing is getting to me. I suppose I only say this because yesterday was payday and I'm not in any immediate need for cash. Stupid sexy Flanders.

Ben and I haven't seen much of each other lately because my schedule is so crazy, but when we do it's all about the demise of our relationship. I miss him, though. Perhaps one of the worst parts of this will be that I have to sleep alone. Sometimes I love being able to spread out, but there's nothing like crawling into bed and wrapping my arms around a warm, good-smelling man. I don't really think that spooning is an option with friends or strangers. That gets weird.

This morning, while he was up and about making coffee, I put my head on his pillow and my arms on his side pretending he was there. I guess that this pathetic display is a way of saying goodbye, of preparing myself for the true absence. Every time I snuggle with the kittens or look into their eyes, I know that that's one more time closer to never again.

Ashley tells me that when your partner is mean to you, you're supposed to work through it and figure things out. How do you know how long to "work through it"? So we gave each other a second chance. Am I being hasty by giving up at the first fight that turns into name-calling? I think you have to want to work through the bad times and believe that you and your partner will change for the better. Sometimes I do believe this and get all ready to hang on, love him no matter what, try really hard to be a better person, but then he fights dirty and I just can't forget all the things that he has said. I know that being unforgiving is a bad habit, but I worry that if I stick around and try not to let the mean words bother me, I will end up a very very angry person in a few years.

I'm just so tired. I have dark circles under my eyes and my liver is screaming at me.

This tuesday is Ben's birthday and he's taking off this weekend to go camping. It freaks me out that he will be alone, but I've got to have faith that he won't get hurt or lost.

Damn, those kittens are drinking the water from the African Violets. It has fertilizer in it. I hope it doesn't hurt them.

I need to put my nasty body in the shower.

Two things:
I have recently gotten into the darkroom again.. I feel myself being calmed the second I enter and I realized that beside my stints in the theatre and with dancing, I have never found an activity that gives me so much confidence and pride.

These darkrooms have weird cylindrical spinning doors that keep out the light. They always remind me of the secret-room-spinning-fireplace-thingies from mysteries. The amber light and delicious scent of fixer instantly serve to remind me of what I love. I may not be a great photographer and printer, but I am good. And I love it.

My ex-boyfriend was a recurring character on Angel. I knew that he'd had a part on an episode of Buffy, but I had no idea that he and Joss were so tight. He even has a fairly large IMDB profile. I descend into a bout of self-centeredness here but follow my thinking for a moment: how weird is it that Jonathan and I date. He moves back to NY where the last time I heard from him he was calling from the World Trade Center [don't freak, it was pre September 11, 2001], then I see him on my most favorite show in the world. (I knew he was an actor, but I didn't think he'd end up in L.A.) Jonathan then goes on to work on Angel and more recently went to ComiCon to promote Joss Whedon's new movie "Serenity." Which I will see, but I'm sure I'll get shit for being so narcissistic. Honestly though, I woulda watched Firefly even if Joss didn't give the ship my name. Wheeeee.

Okay, three things.

Batman Begins opened on Wednesday! Maybe someday I'll have time to see it.


{ps if anyone is annoyed by my redundant behaviour, i apologize and then welcome you to renjitsu.}

Spectres

We walk around the apartment like injured invalids. The tense air of impending pain clings to us and weighs us down, as if any moment a noise or a step will send the agony coursing through our limbs. We walk with the wincing hunch, head down and shifty eyes, with the deliberate step of one who lives with chronic pain. When our eyes do meet, we respond with a strained tug of the mouth or ducking of the head. We are not bodily injured, but our hearts have taken a blow. Neither of us meant for things to end this way, indeed, we thought we had found what we'd been looking for. Perhaps if we walk carefully, silently, shouldering our sadness and disappointment, the inevitable pain during separation with not burn so bitterly.

So I prepare to live from boxes and say goodbye to my kittens. At least I will have the freedom to find out why I am incapable of being in a relationship where I am called names. Perhaps a true adult would be more patient and compassionate when their mate crosses the line with hateful words, but I don't know if I want to have the patience. Would I find myself five years down the road broken and tearful because I decided to stay and give it a try? I am not willing to take that chance. Selfish and self-centered? Yes.

Watch out Buffy, these ladies have heaters...

RE~iteration:
weird shit on net.. laughing so hard. i think pulled something.

ow. so good.

Fan art.


Why are all things 80s back in style, albeit ironically? I was miserable in the 80s because I couldn't get my bangs to do the wave thing and junior high was evil and my sister refused to make up dance routines to Rick Astley and Madonna with me. Dang.

Okay, okay. I admit that I will occasionally wear something a bit on the neon and/or stone-washed jeans side. I still think that site is hilarious.

This one is too.

A good day for fake pearl earrings.

This post contains:

The joys of self-googling
<3A glimpse into the weird world of visual elements in the porn industry.
(Regarding the above: I may actually have to write an entire post on that very strange topic.)
<3Literature Review (Rant)
<3A Deep Thought.
<3A pink dancing robot.
<3A link to the secrets of the number 42.

I was reading a link from the latest webZen and decided to peruse further into the bloggist's entries. There's an entry about googling his high-school ex-girlfriend where he satisfyingly googles himself [man, that sounds deliciously dirty], so I decided to give it a try.

I typed in "serenity nichols" (in the quotes) and here's what I got.

The first two links are from a local Oregon nursery from whom my parents mail-order seeds. I think it is interesting that they end a sentence with my first name and begin the next with my last. We've always joked about how it's our nursery.

Link number three is legit; it's where I work.

But, um...

The last one is boggling. I would have explored it further to find out where one would have the occasion to use my first and last names on a site like that, but alas, I am at work. Uncle Big Brother might not like my delving into a porn site with headings like "cum Filled panties" and "his first gay sex." Dammit.

Why!? Oh why is my name on a porn site? If you just type in Serenity Nichols (without quotes), you get sites like this. Apparently, there's a lovely lady named Stacy Nichols who also "advertises" here. I love the prevalence of photos showing women with their hair blowing all willy-nilly, slightly parted lips, and "bedroom" eyes that make them look like they're on valium. And a few of them look like drag queens. Yes!

Anyway, I am disturbed. What if someone stole my name to make a horny farm-girls movie? That is just not right. At least not without paying me some damned royalties.

I am reading "The Da Vinci Code" right now and I really hate it. The concepts--conspiracy involving major works of art, a secret society, the Catholic church, the Holy Grail, and Goddess worship--are very interesting, but Dan Brown is such a shitty writer. Now, I have read some ve-------ry trashy mysteries in my time, but despite the formulaic nature, I don't feel as though my intelligence is being questioned. Dan Brown enjoys writing for the readers who need/want to be hand-held. In fact, Brown even wipes your ass for you too! I realize that it is a nice convention to explain terms and concepts that most people would not immediately understand, but there are more clever and less demeaning ways to get your point across than launching into a chapter-long. Forgive me a moment while I search for a passage....

"Saint-Sulpice, like most churches, had been built in the shape of a giant Roman cross. Its long central section--the nave--led directly to the main altar, where it was transversely intersected by a shorter section, known as the transept."

Seriously, there must be a better way. I realize that some people do not know the basic layout of churches, but I know that Brown could have somehow informed his readers without actually writing: known as a transept. Perhaps I pick nits, but I'd like to think of it as instead picking knits, unraveling the phenomenon that is this inexplicably popular book. I will admit that I am almost finished and the ride has been fun, but I would like to ask Mr. Brown to try collaborating on his next project. Tell your interesting ideas to a ghost writer!

Whew.

And so. I would like to sign off with a brief message from Jack Handey, an early student of Renjitsu (without his knowledge, of course) and an interesting photo.

A deep thought:
Probably the saddest thing you'll ever see is a mosquito sucking on a mummy. Forget it, little friend.




**In the words of the sauced and shrill woman at Gravy last night:
Love It!

There is some really weird shit on the internet. (See double asterisk above for personal feelings)

Live long and prosper.

The O.C. calls.

Oh the joys of pustules. [Please note the sarcasm.] I am so very run down at the moment that my body chooses to protest in the form of a nice little cold-sore on my upper lip. Is this a sign for me to slow down and spend some time at home? What if I can't? What if home is contributing to my emotional exhaustion?

I have three jobs, one class, a rapidly deteriorating relationship, two kittens, and many unpaid bills. This is getting absurd. I vowed that I would never live in California again, but the romantic notions of sun, sand, and tanned boys really begins to tempt me. Plus, the Getty has a couple of tasty positions and LACMA might also have something nice.

I've been through a divorce, so a break-up certainly won't kill me, but I had such high hopes for this one. I may be completely stunted when it comes to dealing with men, but I adamantly refuse to be treated in certain ways. Perhaps this is a knee-jerk, residual, reaction from the married days. I find it unfortunate that I begin to mistrust my feelings and instincts. Self-contemplation and reflection are good and important, but not self-doubt. Maybe the thing on my lip isn't a variant of herpes, but a physical manifestation of my unhappiness. Weirder things have happened. I saw a picture of an old woman with a crazy, curly horn growing out of her head. Or maybe, like the old woman, I am simply "cursed by the devil."

I got the "God" talk from my mom this weekend. If only I would let god into my heart, everything would be okay. I find this offensive, but I'm not sure why.

Blarg.

I haven't done any shooting for my portraits project, but I did find a couple of mysterious used rolls of black and white film that I will attempt to process tonight. The lab here has metal reels and I have no idea how to use them.

Tomorrow I am working the thursday market again, which is nice and short, but I could really use a real day off.

All that for $80?! You must be kidding.

I do not think that I generally engage in age-ism but today I revert to my snarling evil big-sister persona and curse the day that I worked with a 14 year-old girl. It's not her fault that I ended up working with her but that of the idiot asshole, Luke [I've never even met him], who decided not to show up for work. Now, it is highly possible that the schedule was changed without his knowledge and the fact that he was supposed to work the Portland Farmer's market today may not have been relayed. (Recently I found that I was working days that I didn't have scheduled and removed from days that I did.) However!

I arrived at work at 5:55 a.m. and began counting and sorting breads and pastries with my new-favorite-co-worker Irvin. (We had a discussion on Thursday when we worked the Pearl District market that we should always work together because we're so cool, competent, and both 28]. As we are doing our duties, Irvin informs me that today is his last day because he got a high paying job that starts Monday. Fuck. But oh well, he needs the money to move to San Francisco and we have one glorious last day selling breads and taking smoke breaks.

Alas.

At 6:30 the Fourteenie shows up and languorously begins counting her pastries in our work space. She has no idea where her breads are and since she's 14, she can not drive the van to the market. Still no sign of Luke.

Irvin and I have our van nicely packed, step outside for a quick cig, and Fourteenie's sister comes to tell me that she called the market manager and I must now accompany lil Miss Vapid to the Portland market and that the manager's brother will assist Irvin. Well, the brother is shit at customer service and Irvin said that the last time they worked together, they were very very annoyed with each other by the end of the day. We exchange frustrated looks and Irvin leaves for the Hollywood market. My market.

I single-handedly count all the breads, load them into the van and usher Fourteenie into the passenger bucket-seat. We get to the market at 8:10 (the market begins at 8:30) and begin frantically unloading. After the shit is out of the van I drive to the garage, lock the van, and run back to our stand. Fourteenie has set up the tent (nice) but then she begins arranging the pastries just so and I begin on the bread. By the time the market opened, 95 percent of our stock was still in trays and I was pissed. After about an hour of simultaneously selling bread straight from the trays and arranging a lovely display, Fourteenie asks "would you mind if I took a short break?" Um, yes I fucking mind!

Instead I said, "Yeah, I'd prefer it if you'd help me get the bread out."

So, throughout the day I am stocking our nice baskets and trying to be genuinely enthused for customers while little miss checks her text messages and stands with her hands on her hips and stares vacantly at lord knows what. (Jesus, I just spelled vacantly like this: facantly, and then had to look it up because it looked weird. Not a good sign)

I'm not even going into the unloading back at the bakery process because it involves me working and her not and me getting annoyed and her laughing stupid and breathlessly. Nice girl, but a bit on the "slow" side.

If I didn't need the money so bad, I would tell the manager to shove her job and the 50 leftover loaves of bread directly up her ass. But I won't. I'll probably have to work with the child again, but at least I know to come prepared to sweat. Yes, my face is flushed with exertion and the girl's with youthful, slacker vigor.

10 hours x 8 dollars=SHIT

Oy.

I did come home with this loot, though:
About 8 loaves of bread
1 huge bag of cheese corn
1 huge bag of kettle corn
1 small stinky wedge of cheese
1 bundle of peonies

Goddess/God/Deity bless beer, bare feet, hot running water, and contact solution! Amen.

A Lesson in Renjitsu

Here's what I think:
When you feel bad, look good.

It's a shallow high, admittedly, but when life smacks you around, calls you its bitch, and then tops it off with a red-wine hangover, I say put on a little makeup, some sassy shoes, tight pants; whatever makes you feel good.

Sean's friend Gabby always says that if you dress especially well when you have a hangover, the costume will hide the shittiness that you feel. I believe that this can work for feelin' down.

I know that adorning oneself with superficial armor is not a healthy, progressive, or mature tactic for dealing with life's little cankers. Sometimes, though, it helps to get through a day that would otherwise be spent in pajamas reading a trashy novel and chain-smoking.

So today I wear my silver heels and tight levis in the hope that as I walk zombie-style with a bizarre rictus stretched across my face, patrons and co-workers will not quite notice the roiling mass of despondency and uncertainty that lurks so close to the surface.

Plus, I'm really tired.