trop amour.

last week, when i was overseas, lying alone in a musty bedroom with pea green carpet, i thought about my grandfather, who was turning ninety the next day. he is almost deaf, with silver hair, and an eye that is always squinting. when i fight with my mother, i often say "i am a grown up now", but in the grand scheme of things, ninety is grown up, really, isn't it? twenty one is infantile.

i thought about my grandfather, who slept in that stale house every night for the past four decades, and about what it means to have too much of something. not obvious things, like too much birthday cake or too much vodka, but things that are more difficult to quantify in numbers. if i cannot count attention with digits, how can i say "you are contemplating that too much?"

some musings are answered easier than others. my grandfather took me to a decrepit castle on a hill, twelve centuries old, and i stood at the top and screamed out from my stomach and heard no echo. there is, then, such a thing as too much space.



but what about harder ideas? emotional ideas, rather. is there such a thing as missing too much? or wanting too much? or caring too much? these are hard concepts for me to grasp, let alone figure out past midnight under the covers.

i'm coming for you, james.

today, my mother and i traveled from england to ireland.

we arrived at manchester piccadilly and panicked when our printed reference number was rejected from the automated machines. it was my seven year old cousin anna who figured out our rookie mistake. typical, really, of her to save the day after i had been teasing her for days about miley cyrus being my best friend and high school musical being true to life for all american students. i had underestimated her.

we rode fifteen minutes in the quiet car until we arrived in crewe and changed to a shinier train that would take us to north wales where we would catch the ferry to ireland. a gas leak in the train ahead of ours delayed us an hour, but a nice man with no teeth and tattoos on his hands kept pulling tall cans of dark irish beer out of his duffel bag and telling me stories about "the real dublin", so the time passed quickly.

the united kingdom looks the same from most angles. but i think my favorite is from a train window. sheep with tails that wag like dogs. churches with tops that look like crowns, castles. water that changes from bahama blue to mermaid green when the coastline curves.

when i was expecting staten island, i was surprised with a cruise ship. everything was named after james joyce. there were bars and plush seats. a movie theater that was showing the new "star trek". and families of loud red headed, freckled children who would punch their baby siblings in the throat when they snuck sips of their mother's guinness.

now i am in the house of an american embassy employee, drinking tea with milk and missing my dog.

julio cortazar.

"... we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or with fish, with lively movements and dark fragrance. and if we bite each other the pain is sweet, and if we smother each other in a brief and terrible sucking in together of our breaths, that momentary death is beauitful. and there is but one saliva and one flavor of ripe fruit, and i feel you tremble against me lie a moon on the water."

living in your parents basement.

portland is known for it's bridges. in the third grade, in mr. mcelroy's class at alameda elementary, we had to memorize the name of every bridge, including who built it and when. i have forgotten the details, but the names are easy enough.

the st. johns. the fremont. the broadway. the steel. the burnside. the morrison. the hawthorne. the marquam. the ross island. the sellwood.


recently, i've been asking my friends what their favorite bridge is as a test of character. my mother says the fremont. it shares the same name as the street that i grew up on. and it's expansive. huge. and open. when you drive from the east to the west side, you are on the top level, looking out over the industrial district. it feels like you are on the golden gate but in a city where the air is fresher. my boyfriend says the sellwood. it is a tiny two lane bridge with nerve wracking walking paths on each side. there are rumors that even the architect who built it refuses to use it because it is in constant danger of falling down. my boyfriend, he likes the danger. he plays russian roulette every time he crosses it. my best friend, he says the broadway. it is a safe bridge, made out of iron that is tinted red. there are bike paths on each side, and a mural to the north that shows cowboys picking grains.

my favorite bridge is the steel. thus far, i stand alone in the poll.

the steel is under used. it is tricky to get their by car. but on the east side of the river, the bridge spills out onto the esplanade, where i can walk with sugar's leash hanging loosely on my wrist. on the west side, you enter into old town, where the buildings are all made out of worn brick. the steel has two levels; the top for cars and the max train, the bottom for walkers and bikers. and perched in between the two iron towers is a pale yellow house where a man sits to push a button that raises the bridge to make room for the boats passing through on their way to the pacific.

on another note, i would like to go dancing tonight, if you want to join.