Sometimes, I simply cannot believe the sort of things that come out of my fingers and keyboard, and directly onto the internet. Y'all better be DAMNED glad I'm a writer and not a truck driver, or, this week alone, I think I would have caused a six-car pile-up. An day now, I'll start causing some real trouble, one of you lurkers will tip off the C.I.A., and they'll haul me off to terrorist camp.
Speaking of terrorist camp, did you all hear about the anti-Bush protests in Portland the other day? I still don't like Portland (come to think of it, the very first person I knew from Portland turned out to be a huge asshole), but I gotta mention it anyway. Portland is redeeming itself, maybe, a little, in small ways...
I have been thinking a lot... There are some changes that need to be made, some things that need saying that haven't been said. In certain aspects of my life, I'm simply not happy. Maybe I'm not even UNhappy, but I'm not happy, and I suspect there are ways to obtain real happiness in those places instead of just content numbness and a little bit of murky, desperate, displeasure.
I don't, as of this moment, know exactly what to do about that. I've got a few very good ideas, however. I'm working on them.
But I want you to know that, in some ways, things are very, very good.
A few nights ago, Jürgen and I started making mead at his house. His room-mate, and his room-mate's friend, a jolly, round girl whose name I can't remember, were making soupy blackberry pies. I was happily teasing Jürgen about the bird on his t'shirt (he insists it was something called a "jayhawk," but the damned thing looks JUST like a chicken...), and the jolly, round girl was dipping little pieces of unbaked pie-crust into some blackberry mush. All four of us were giggling. And in the background, Jürgen's room-mate had put on a CD of Pat Boone singing "Holy Diver." The words "butt rock," and "flaming heads of death," were used several times. I helped myself to some pie crust, and spent what seems like an eternity stirring a huge kettle of honey, water, and blackberries on the stove, for mead.
The blackberry pies were not a success. Rather, they were very successful as blackberry soup, but they weren't very pie-like. Jürgen's room-mate began discussing a plot: to find one of the international students ("you know, one of the Japanese girls... I'll find one wearing a white t'shirt...") at Evergreen, and greeting her with a pie in the face: "Oh, hello there [stumble, stumble, SMUSH]... Oops... I didn't MEAN to fall on you, pie first..." I offered to pretend to be an international student. I wouldn't mind having a blackberry pie thrown in MY face. Even a soupy one.
Jürgen and his room-mate call each other "dude." For some reason, I think this is terribly sweet. Sometimes, calling somebody "dude," is so brotherly, so affectionate. There are very few people in the world whom I call "dude" on a regular basis; pretty much just Aaron, and my brothers. It makes me happy to be around people who like each other that way.
Then the four of us watched a video -- a silly Peter Sellers movie. It was, all in all, a very nice night. And I wish many, many nights could be like this. I wish that every night I could feel as though I had friends who would feed me blackberry soup and giggle with me about utter nonsense, and vehemently argue about the difference between a chicken and the mythical "jayhawk." THAT would be very, very good.
Tonight I'm going to the Spar to see the jazz band and suck down a rum&coke. A good thing. I need some time to think. And I NEED to think, before I write, or there will most assuredly be a six-car pile-up...
~Helena Thomas*