Last January, Joe and I were the first ones on this beach one morning. It's a small spot at the base of the Mayan Ruins in Tulum. It was early enough that the water was a bit warmer than the air. The OCEAN was warmer than the air. I often forget that oceans can be for swimming. It was something I once knew and have forgotten. Sometimes I see people in the water on the Oregon coast and I think they must have a disease that prevents them from feeling the bitter pins and heart-stopping pain. That is, I used to think that until I saw a story about this woman who swam for 30 minutes in the waters of Antarctica. I find this form of extremism interesting. What kind of person craves an identity as "the only person to . . ." especially when the thing they are doing benefits nobody and brings them close to death? It's all very interesting.

If I can't have seaweed floating in a pretty blue sea then I'll take a spiraled fern and some moss-soft rocks.

This is one of the "Marine Series" prints on canvas from my friend, Joe, at jefdesigns. It makes me think of Mexico which is always a good thing. The whole series is very cool. The man also makes beautiful lamps. And what is more important in these dark, soggy days than good lighting and thoughts of swimming in a warm ocean? It may not make the months FLY by, but it sure does help.

I always wanted to live on this street. It's just a few blocks from the first house I lived in here and, though it's hard to tell in the blahness of winter, it has a charm that the already charming streets around it don't have. It's very narrow and the houses are close together. The trees arch over the road and everything feels very cozy. In the summer it always reminds me of a street in a beach town. I always imagined that I would actually be friends with my neighbors if I lived on this street.
And now I do live on this street, only not on this block. The charm here only runs a few blocks before emptying out onto a busier, broader, double yellow lined section of the street. Really, I'm lucky to live in the neighborhood at all, so I'm not complaining. I'm just saying that when you wish for something, be very very specific. I was supposed to learn that from some fairy tale or Bewitched episode or something, right? Well, lesson learned.

Everything is so quiet this morning. So few cars, so few people. Did I forget a holiday? Did I miss the warning to STAY INDOORS? It's one of those ugly flat days anyway. I don't blame the city for trying their best to ignore it.

Tonight I did my first volunteer training to become a facilitator for Write Around Portland. They are an amazing group that runs dozens of writing workshops every year, along with running readings and publishing anthologies of the participants' work all for a diverse group of folks who wouldn't otherwise have access to such things.

Tonight I did my first ten-minute writing from a prompt. You'd think I'd come across this sort of thing in my writing life, but no. I've always avoided any kind of "free write" scenario. The workshops this group runs makes heavy use of the prompt, write and read lay out, so I'm going to have to get use to it. I wanted a challenge for myself and now I've done gone and gotten it. I let my heart bang against my ribs and did it. There was a fair amount of panic in having to be there, in a circle of strangers, writing without thinking too much and then reading what I'd written without shaking too much, but I did it. And honestly, what I wrote was better than I expected it could be. And I participated more than I thought I would. And I liked the other volunteers. Maybe this is the leaf. Watch me turn it over.

Not long ago I finished reading Jeffrey Eugenides' Middlesex which is set in Detroit. It reminded me of one of my favorite procrastination techniques: Looking up pics of abandoned Detroit buildings. I've only been to Detroit once many many years ago but in my few hours there I was instantly awed by the beauty and pathos of what I saw. It's just all so weird. I got this particular pic from The Fabulous Ruins of Detroit site. I could easily do without ever seeing another photo of a band standing in a run down building or on some forgotten train tracks, but I find these unpeopled photos amazing. I can't help but be fascinated by the enormous scope of the neglect and all the history it entails.

I've been the tall girl since seventh grade. Or so I thought. I remember there were these twin boys who were taller than me in junior high and my equally tall friend, Theresa, who moved away in eighth grade. And yet, when I look back at the few pictures I have of that time, I don't seem so huge. Of course, comparing myself to my 5'9" sister (on the right) isn'exactly a fair display of what it felt like to be surrounded by boys who were struggling to reach past 5'2". I was probably 5'7" then, inching steadily up another three inches, hovering over my friends and enemies until ninth grade when a few more of the boys finally caught up. It's hard to choose which of the various ills was the truly defining trauma of those years. There were bad haircuts, acne, glasses, braces, bad fashion sense (even for 1982), being the new kid, being insanely shy and insanely tall. I feel bad for that girl as if she wasn't me.

Even back then, I wasn't entirely aware of my height. Of course, every now and then some wit would ask me about the weather up there and the full burden of it would climb onto my shoulders. That's when I started the tall girl slump. Of course there was also the big boob slump, the fuck you slump and the tissue paper heart slump. Do seventh grade girls still do this? Or has the teenage slut look made them all falsely bold?

Nowadays, when a really tall woman is in the same room as me I feel a ridiculous flash of competitiveness. You think you're tall, bitch. . .why don't you take off those heels and we'll really see what we're looking at? Every day I work to erase the muscle memory of those junior high hallways and untie the knots in my shoulders that feel like bone. But still, on a night like this New Year's Eve, when I looked around the dance floor, I couldn't help but notice that I was the tallest girl there, tallest person around practically. I love being tall, especially on dance floors. It scares off a certain kind of unwanted attention. And yet, I can't help but wish that, just once, I was that cute little petite woman who knows how to shake it even in stilleto heeled boots. A little bit of that twelve-year old longing snaps across my skin.

Kitty Mao greets the new year with suspicion

Learn more. Listen more. Laugh more. And put the cat on a diet.

Do you remember? Do you remember the New Year's Eve when the clock actually mattered because something slightly magical was happening? Do you remember the New Year's Eve you wished you were anywhere but where you were? Remember the kisses and the standing alone pretending you didn't care. Remember the toasts with friends at that bar that's no longer there and the toast with jam you made while babysitting. Remember to enjoy yourself if you can.

Portland can give a person a false sense of anonymity. There are vast portions of this city that I never get to. Driving over to my friend's house in North Portland for Christmas was like going to another city. Southwest Portland (except for the downtown portion of it that doesn't really count) is a complete unknown full of neighborhoods that I've heard of but never seen. And yet, no one who lives here can go long without running into an old neighbor, an ex-wife, a former bandmate. I'm thinking that, maybe, there are only about five-hundred people actually living in this city.

Personally, I'm having an increasing problem running into clients. This fall, a client who lives in the neigborhood walked by as I was outside pulling weeds with a cigarette dangling out of my mouth. A few days ago, at the grocery store, I ran into some clients I see regularly. They had their two year old son with them. I had a basket with hair dye and condoms in it. You see the problem? There are certain things I don't want to know about my health care professionals. The brand of lube they use, would definitely be one of those things.

My clientelle are often neighborhood folk and I love my neighborhood. I guess this is yet another opportunity to give free reign to my personality and let the cards fall where they may.

Somewhere early on in my independent life, the refrigerator became not only a place to store food, but a place to display all the shameful photographs of the past and present. This is what happens when there aren't kids around cluttering things up with their drawings and report cards. The Fridge of Shame has gone through many mutations. Some friends have willingly donated old photos to it, bless them. Some more charming than shameful pics have slipped into the mix. But today I came face to face with the fact that the shame was not only to be found in the photos of my untameable adolescent hair but also inside the refrigerator as well. I couldn't show you the whole thing. The moldy squash and wilted cabbage says it all.

The approach of the new year makes me anxious for a clean and tidy place. It took me so long to clean out the fridge that I didn't get to much else today. But at least all that shame is back where it belongs, clinging to some cheap magnates.

Jack LaLanne's Exercises for Librarians and Other Bookish Types

Oh yes, the sloth is off as I suspected it would be. I guess I usually don't make much of the beige malaise because when I'm holiday-ing with family (particularly the less familiar extended variety) I automatically turn off most of my personality. For some reason I've have the idea that being as unobtrusive and inoffensive as possible makes the time go faster or at least easier. It's not really true. It only makes the time less confrontational. Maybe next year, when my cousin toasts the troops because they are fighting for our freedom I will, in turn, toast Dennis Kucinich or some other fine liberal for not buying the bullshit. Maybe I'll politely ask my sister what it is about the bible that she actually believes and why. And maybe I'll scare my uncle with a little joke involving a rusty trombone and a dirty sanchez. Holiday madness would ensue and I might never be asked back again. Hmmm.

The beige malaise continues. I did a small amount of mediocre writing this morning. One of my clients was really interesting, the rest weren't. My neck is hurting a little, but it's not too bad. Is this what it feels like to be on lithium, everything made bland? I even know that it will go away, probably soon, as the holidays dissipate. blah . . .blah. . .blah . . .

Despite the lack of blood relatives around today, I still have that familiar Christmas feeling of being overfed and slightly nauseous with a mixture of food, boredom and melancholy.

I am certain that this feeling will dissipate later this evening when I am with my friends eating our X-mas pizzas made from this overflowing dough and watching raunchy comedies. Praise jeebus.

The other night, coming back from Seattle, we drove by this house and all fell immediately into a state of wonder. I may not be a big fan of most things christmas, but I AM a big fan of tiny white lights. Which isn't to say I'm a big fan of this sort of thing:

Once, when I was a little girl, too little to remember much, our neighbors put up a huge and gaudy christmas display. My father, in turn, got up on the roof with his flashing lights and spelled out "Eat at Joe's." It may have been the last big joke my father ever made and, alas, there's not a single bit of photographic evidence to prove that it actually happened.

I started this year out hoping to expand my generosity and find that I have had some minor success. I think I'll start next year hoping to expand my gratitude.

There are two things I am grateful for today: The days get longer from here on out. The cat, if no one else, is really enjoying all the X-mas packaging sitting around the house.

The Year of Serving Gracefully

Aah, the internet. With my family's reliance on the typical culprits of bland gifts for the home, I can easily look up the various serving platters they sent me and share photos of them here with you. If you wanted to share, why not take pictures, you ask? Well . . .I received these gifts just before the band came over for practice. With my office filled with boxes and wrapping paper and packaging, I brought these out to the dining room table and let the boys have their choice. You wouldn't think rock musicians would be so quick to grab up the Crate and Barrel goodies, but they did. They, in turn, will hand the platters over to girlfriends, in-laws, etc.

Say it's wrong to open my presents early. Say it's wrong to be so ungrateful. Say I'm a scrooge. I don't care. There is no possibility that any of my relatives saw these gifts and thought, "Oh, Tracy would love that. I HAVE to get it for her." My guess is they saw this stuff on one of their sweeps through the mall and it wasn't too expensive. If they knew me at all, they would know I am a hermit and never have people over for cheese and crackers. They would know that I have no clear cupboards and no open shelf space. NONE. I don't fault them for not knowing me. I don't fault them for being generous in giving me a gift at all. But I am tired, tired, tired of Christmas obligations. If you are moved to buy the perfect gift, get joy from giving it, then that's great. Otherwise, it's junk, a waste of money, time and paper. Giving me this crap doesn't keep me connected to my family or make Jesus happy. If they called me or wrote me a short note, I would be a million times more grateful. As it stands, this simply shows that too much of what we do, in my extended family at least, is follow the rules of family without much spirit or heart.

I'm done now.

I often feel like an old lady with my various aches and pains. "You're falling apart" Sean always says. This, of course, is code for "Please stop whining about how much your shoulder/back/neck hurts." He's right and so is the acupuncturist I went to today. She didn't need all the alloted time for my appointment because I'm basically very healthy, not particularly neurotic and while I'm prone to cynicism and pessisism, there's not much acupuncture can do for my occasional bad attitude. I've got healthy genes and may very well live to see the day when I am an actual very old very grumpy lady.

We did a day trip to Seattle yesterday to see Bodies:The Exhibition. This pic is from my favorite section where they isolated the vascular system of various organs by injecting some kind of plastic into them then dissolved the rest of the tissue with chemicals. Amazing. I noticed this morning that going into the exhibit with a decent knowledge of muscles and bones helped me take away some interesting insight for my massage practice. As I worked on my first client this morning, I couldn't help but imagine the shape of the muscles more clearly and how, there, just under the first rib at the top of his shoulder, sat his lungs. Having examined all those flayed and displayed layers of skin, fat, muscles, veins and nerves, it is easy to see how everything is connected.

If you're anywhere near one of these shows, go see it. It's a million worlds away from the brightly colored anatomy drawings most of us know. They have a smoker's lungs and arteries clogged with atherosclerosis. Plus they also have a real teratoma tumor a type of growth that can contain hair and teeth. It reminded me of this story by Julia Slavin about a woman who grows teeth all over her body. It's posted on the Crescent Review website, but is also available in her book The Woman Who Cut off Her Leg at the Maidstone Club.

See? I can do it too. I can get my ass up out of bed before sunrise. I got up to write not to witness the early pink and purple sky, but that was a bonus. I didn't want to get up, but I'm testing out my new year's resolutions, a trial run to see if there's any real possibility of following through with them. Today's test was to get up between 6am and 6:30am and sit my ass down to write. It worked out pretty well. I sat all bundled up in blankets on my new squishy couch and wrote on the laptop. I even had some minor revelations concerning my plot, the kind that might very well evaporate as soon as I try to actually write out the necessary scenes, but for today, I'll take it.

Here's what my friend Ish wrote to me:
i wanted community via ideas & language but what i
realize now is that writing is the community.

My conscious mind is slightly baffled while my subconscious mind is delighted. Such is the way with me and Ish.

Listen to him make some noise and sing about girls.

Has the phenomena of the red living room invaded your town? I always wanted a red living room and when I bought my house didn't hesitate to bloody the walls up with a good dark coat of the stuff. As soon as I did this, I noticed dozens of other red living rooms just in my neighborhood alone. Did I subconsciously fall under the influence of some design trend? If it was a trend, it seems like an old one now. I'm thinking eggplant will be the new red, just like brown was once the new black. Forest green will be the new navy and mustard will be the new orange.

This is Carrie Underwood. Today, I flipped on the TV and saw her singing on Oprah. I was mesmerized. The girl had so much makeup on that it looked as though they had airbrushed her using some sort of two-second delay. Plus, she had on this weird gold cocktail/country denim outfit And then I listened to what she was singing. Apparently everyone in America knows this song and has put down actual money for it. For me, it was an introduction to a little thing called "Jesus, Take the Wheel."

So you're stressed out, haven't been to church in a while and you hit a patch of the deadly BLACK ICE. What's the best thing to do? Take your hands off the wheel and pray that Jesus will save your baby in the back seat. With faith returned, the mythical ghost will swoop down and steer the car into the spin the way the driver's ed teacher taught him. Everything will be okay. Everything will be okay. It's not your responsibility. Everything will be okay.

Okay, now back to the mexican cabana . . .

I don't know...does the lack of effort in this "Christmas photo" show? I'm actually amazed that we did it. There was really no good reason to, other than I felt a little guilty just sending my aunts and uncles and grandmother a card and nothing else. Stupid Christmas gifts. I'm getting these printed in a "holiday frame" which I'm pretty sure will make my grandmother say "Isn't that sweet" right before she says "That boy needs to get a damn haircut" and "Poor girl got her mother's forehead." None of them will appreciate the danger we were putting ourselves in by holding the cat this way.

This is a photo taken by my friend, Joe, from jefdesigns. It's this morning's sunrise. Apparently we have some "stagnant air" hanging over Portland, the kind you get in summer when they tell you to not drive. Now they tell us to not drive and to not build fires. Makes for a pretty picture, though.

I find it odd that I get myself up at sunrise when I'm on vacation but sleep in when I'm back at work. I guess that's partly because I'm often on vacation without my personal space heater, otherwise known as Sean. It was easy to see the sunrise like I did in Manzanita when I was sleeping alone on a couch in front of a giant picture window. Or when the ocean was crashing outside the open window of my mexican cabana.

Oh mexican cabana . . .

Christo comes to the corner of 49th and Hawthorne.

It's nice to sit back and, solely as an observer, admire the person you're with. Today I listened to my beaux defend his biggest dream with conviction. This is a pic of his band Funk Shui. Check them out. If you live in Portland, catch a show. They are all fine musicians deserving of far greater fame and fortune than they have received. But the lesson of today is to not give up hope. Or give up practicing. Or give up pushing.

This is Manzanita, a small town on the northern Oregon coast and the place I almost always mean when I say the beach, the beach, the beach. This trip, one of extended luxury, with a Friday departure and a late Monday return, was particularly brilliant. Three days of sun and almost no winds. The sunsets were practically heartbreaking. No, really. With the waxing moon lifting up from the horizon at the same time, the skyglow and the silvered dark gray sand, we were all in awe of the little spot of land we get to inhabit here.

Sunday morning I got up with the light and slipped into the hot tub on the second-floor deck of the house. A few birds marked the pale sky, the windbent evergreens shook off their gothic night time postures. The clouds were smudged pink. I felt the same way I did when watching the early morning waves of Tulum, the early morning air and animals; This is the way the world would feel without us.

The beach the beach the beach the beach the beach the beach...